TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 


ITNTV.  OF  CALIF.  L1WIARY.  T,OS 


To  Him  That  Hath 

By 
LEROY  SCOTT 

Author  of  "  The  Walking  'Delegate" 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  1907,  BY  LEROY  Scorr 

COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHED,  JULY,  1907 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED, 

INCLUDING  THAT  or  TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 
INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


TO  THOSE  WHOM  THE  WORLD  HAS  MADE  UGLY  AND 
WHOSE  UGLINESS  THE  WORLD   CANNOT  FORGIVE 


2132771 


CONTENTS 

BOOK   I.      THE   HIGHEST   PRICE 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     An  Injustice  of  God 1 

II.    What  David  Found  in  Morton's  Closet  .     .     10 
III.    The  Bargain 29 

BOOK   II.      THE   CLOSED   ROAD 

I.  David  Re-enters  the  "World 45 

II.  A  Call  from  a  Neighbour 56 

III.  The  Superfluous  Man 68 

IV.  An  Uninvited  Guest 86 

V.  Guest  Turns  Host 97 

VI.     Tom  is  Seen  at  Work 107 

VII.  A  New  Item  in  the  Bill  of  Scorn  .     .     .     .117 

VIII.     The  World's  Denial 123 

IX.     The  Open  Road 136 

BOOK   III.      TOWARD   THE  LIGHT 

I.  The  Mayor  of  Avenue  A 152 

II.  The  Saving  Ledge 167 

III.  A  Prophecy 174 

IV.  Puck  Masquerades  as  Cupid 187 

V.  On  the  Upward  Path 201 

VI.     John  Rogers 214 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.     Hope  and  Dejection 226 

VIII.     Rogers  Makes  an  Offer 235 

IX.  The  Mayor  and  the  Inevitable     ....  244 

X.     A  Bad  Penny  Turns  Up 254 

XI.     A  Love  that  Persevered 262 

XII.     Mr.  Chambers  Takes  a  Hand 273 

XIII.     The  End  of  the  Deal 282 

BOOK   IV.      THE   SOUL,   OF   WOMAN 

I.  Helen  Gets  a  New  View  of  Her  Father  .      .  298 

II.  David  Sees  the  Face  of  Fortune  ....  313 

III.  Helen's  Conscience 324 

IV.  The  Ordeal  of  Kate  Morgan 331 

V.     The  Command  of  Love 343 

VI.     Another  World .350 

VII.    As  Love  Apportions 357 

VIII.    A  Partial  Release 365 

IX.     Father  and  Daughter 377 

X.  The  Beginning  of  Life      .     ...    ..     .           .  391 


PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS 


DAVID  ALDRICH,        . 
ALEXANDER  CHAMBERS, 
1 1 1: I.K N   CHAMBERS,  . 
HENRY  ALLEN,  .         .         . 
CARL   HOFFMAN,    . 
CARRIE  BECKER,  . 
WILLIAM  OSBOHNE,  . 
REV.  JOSEPH  FRANKLIN,   . 
REV.  PHILIP  MORTON, 
JOHN   ROGERS, 
KATE  MORGAN,        . 
JIMMIE  MORGAN,          .         . 
TOM  (last  name  uncertain), 
LILLIAN  DREW,      .        . 


An  author 

A  king  of  finance 

.....   His  daughter 

.A  lawyer  with  a  political  future 

.  The  Mayor  of  Avenue  A 

.     An  admirer  of  the  Mayor 

A  publisher 

Director  of  St.  Christopher's  Mission 

.         .       Dead,  but  a  living  memory 

.         .    A  real  estate  agent 

.         .         .A  nurse-maid 

Her  father 

.      Whose  parents  were  the  street 
.        Of  the  sisterhood  of  Magdalene 


BOOK  I 
THE  HIGHEST  PRICE 


TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 


BOOK  I 

THE  HIGHEST  PRICE 
CHAPTER  I 

AN  INJUSTICE  OF  GOD 

THE  Reverend  Philip  Morton,  head  of  St. 
Christopher's  Mission,  had  often  said  that, 
in  event  of  death  or  serious  accident,  he  wished 
David  Aldrich  to  be  placed  in  charge  of  his  per- 
sonal affairs;  so  when  at  ten  o'clock  of  a  Sep- 
tember morning  the  janitor,  at  order  of  the 
frightened  housekeeper,  broke  into  the  bath-room 
and  found  Morton's  body  lying  white  and  dead 
in  the  tub,  the  housekeeper's  first  clear  thought 
was  of  a  telegram  to  David. 

The  message  came  to  David  while  he  was  dog- 
gedly working  over  a  novel  that  had  just  come 
back  from  a  third  publisher.  He  glanced  at 
the  telegram,  then  his  tall  figure  sank  back  into 
his  chair  and  he  stared  at  the  yellow  sheet. 
Never  before  had  Death  struck  him  so  heavy  a 
blow.  The  wound  of  his  mother's  death  had 

1 


2  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

been  dealt  in  quick-healing  childhood;  and 
though  his  father,  a  Western  mining  engineer, 
had  died  but  seven  years  before,  David  had 
known  him  hardly  otherwise  than  as  a  remotely 
placed  giver  of  an  allowance.  Morton  had  for 
years  been  his  best  friend — latterly  almost  his 
only  friend.  For  a  space  the  blow  rendered  him 
stupid;  then  the  agony  of  his  personal  loss  en- 
tered him,  and  wrung  him ;  and  then  in  beside  his 
personal  sorrow  there  crept  a  sense  of  the  ap- 
palling loss  of  the  people  about  St.  Christo- 
pher's. 

But  there  was  no  time  for  inactive  grief.  He 
quickly  threw  a  black  suit  and  a  week's  linen  into 
a  travelling  bag,  and  within  an  hour  after  the 
New  York  train  pulled  out  of  his  New  Jersey 
suburb,  he  paused  across  the  street  from  St. 
Christopher's  Mission — a  chapel  of  red  brick, 
with  a  short  spire  rising  above  the  tenements' 
flat  heads,  and  adjoining  it  a  four-story  club- 
house in  whose  windows  greened  forth  boxes  of 
ivy  and  geraniums.  The  doors  of  the  chapel 
stood  wide,  as  they  always  did  for  whoso  desired 
to  rest  or  pray,  but  the  doors  of  the  club-house, 
usually  open,  were  closed  against  the  casual  vis- 
itor by  the  ribboned  seal  of  death. 

David  held  his  eyes  on  the  fourth-story  win- 
dows, behind  which  he  knew  his  friend  lay.  Min- 
utes passed  before  he  could  cross  the  street  and 
ring  the  bell.  He  was  admitted  into  the  large 
hallway,  cut  with  numerous  doors  leading  into 
club-rooms,  and  hung  with  prints  of  Raphaels, 
Murillos,  Angelicos  and  other  holy  master- 
painters.  Overwhelmed  though  all  his  senses 
were,  he  was  at  once  struck  by  the  emptiness,  the 


AN  INJUSTICE  OF  GOD  3 

silence,  of  the  great  house — by  its  strange  child- 
lessness. 

As  he  started  up  the  stairway  he  saw  at  its 
top  a  tall  young  woman  dressed  in  black.  His 
mounting  steps  quickened.  "Miss  Chambers!" 
he  said. 

She  came  down  the  stairway  with  effortless 
grace,  her  hand  outheld,  her  subdued  smile  warm 
with  friendship.  He  quivered  within  as  he 
heard  his  name  in  her  rich  voice,  as  he  clasped 
her  hand,  as  he  looked  into  the  sincerity,  the  dig- 
nity, the  rare  beauty  of  her  face. 

There  were  none  of  those  personal  questions 
with  which  long-parted  friends  bridge  the  chasm 
of  their  separation.  Death  made  self  trivial. 
At  first  they  could  only  breathe  awed  interjec- 
tions upon  the  disaster  that  so  suddenly  had 
fallen.  Then  David  asked  the  question  that  had 
been  foremost  in  his  mind  for  the  last  two 
hours : 

"What  caused  his  death?  I've  had  only  a  bare 
announcement." 

She  gave  him  the  details.  "His  doctor  told 
me  he  had  a  weak  heart,"  she  added.  '  'In  all 
likelihood,'  the  doctor  said,  'the  shock  of  the  cold 
bath  had  caused  heart  failure.  Perhaps  the  seiz- 
ure itself  was  fatal;  perhaps  on  the  other  hand 
the  seizure  was  recoverable  but  while  helpless 
he  drowned.' 

"As  soon  as  I  learned  of  his  death  I  hurried 
here — I  happened  to  be  in  town  for  a  few  days," 
she  went  on,  after  a  moment.  "I  thought  I 
might  possibly  be  of  service.  But  Bishop  Har- 
per has  sent  a  Dr.  Thorn,  and  Mrs.  Humphrey 
told  me  you  were  coming,  so  it  seems  I  can  be  of 


4  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

no  assistance.  But  if  there's  anything  I  can  do, 
please  let  me  know." 

David  promised.  They  spoke  of  the  great 
misfortune  to  the  Mission — which  she  felt  even 
more  keenly  than  he,  for  her  interest  in  St. 
Christopher's  had  been  more  active,  so  was 
deeper;  then  she  bade  him  good-bye  and  contin- 
ued down  the  stairway.  He  followed  her  with 
his  eyes.  This  was  but  the  second  time  he  had 
seen  her  since  her  mother's  death,  six  months  be- 
fore; and  her  beauty,  all  in  black,  was  still  a 
fresh  marvel  to  him. 

When  the  door  had  closed  upon  her,  he 
mounted  stairs  and  passed  through  hallways, 
likewise  hung  with  brown  prints  and  opening 
into  club-rooms,  till  he  came  to  the  door  of  Mor- 
ton's quarters.  Mrs.  Humphrey  answered  his 
ring,  and  the  housekeeper's  swollen  eyes  flowed 
fresh  grief  as  she  took  his  hand  and  led  him 
into  the  sitting-room,  walled  with  Morton's 
books. 

"The  noblest,  ablest,  kindest  man  on  earth — 
gone — and  only  thirty-five  1"  she  said,  between 
her  sobs.  "Millions  might  have  been  called,  and 
no  difference;  but  he  was  the  one  man  we 
couldn't  spare.  And  yet  God  took  him!" 

The  same  cry  against  God's  injustice  had  been 
springing  from  David's  own  grief.  Mrs. 
Humphrey  continued  her  lamentations,  but  they 
were  soon  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  cler- 
gyman, of  most  pronounced  clerical  cut,  whom 
she  introduced  as  Dr.  Thorn.  Dr.  Thorn  ex- 
plained that  Bishop  Harper,  knowing  Morton 
had  no  relatives,  had  sent  him  to  take  charge  of 
the  funeral  arrangements;  and  he  went  on  to 


AN  INJUSTICE  OF  GOD  5 

say  that  if  David  had  any  requests,  he'd  be  glad 
to  carry  them  out.  It  was  a  relief  to  David 
to  be  freed  of  the  business  details  of  his 
friend's  funeral.  He  replied  that  he  had  no 
wishes,  and  Dr.  Thorn  withdrew,  taking  with 
him  Mrs.  Humphrey. 

Alone,  memories  of  his  friend  lying  in  the 
next  room  rushed  upon  him.  Morton  had  been 
some  kind  of  distant  cousin — so  distant  that  the 
exact  fraction  of  their  kinship  was  beyond  com- 
putation. After  the  death  of  David's  mother, 
Morton's  father  had  stood  in  place  of  David's 
far-absent  parent;  and  Morton  himself,  though 
David's  senior  by  hardly  ten  years,  had  suc- 
ceeded to  the  guardianship  on  his  own  father's 
death  nine  years  before. 

This  formal  relation  had  grown,  with  David's 
growth  into  manhood,  into  warmest  friendship. 
David  had  given  Morton  the  admiring  love  a 
younger  brother  gives  his  brilliant  elder,  and  had 
received  the  affection  such  as  an  older  brother 
would  give  a  younger,  who  was  not  alone  brother 
but  a  youth  of  sympathy  and  promise.  It  had 
been  Morton  who  had  insisted  that  he  had  a  lit- 
erary future,  Morton  who  had  tried  to  cheer  him 
through  his  five  years  of  struggling  unsuccess. 
And  so  the  memories  and  grief  that  now  flooded 
David  were  not  less  keen  than  if  Morton's  blood 
and  his  had  indeed  been  the  same. 

After  a  time  David  moved  to  a  window  and 
looked  out  over  the  geraniums  and  ivy  into  the 
narrow  street,  with  its  dingy,  red-faced  tene- 
ments zig-zagged  with  fire-escapes.  His  mind 
slipped  back  six  years  to  when  Morton  had  taken 
charge  of  St.  Christopher's,  which  then  occupied 


6  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

merely  an  old  dwelling,  and  when  he,  a  boy  of 
twenty,  had  first  visited  the  neighbourhood. 
The  neighbourhood  was  then  a  crowded  district 
forgotten  by  those  who  called  themselves  good 
and  just,  remembered  only  by  landlords,  poli- 
ticians and  saloonkeepers — grimy,  quarrelsome, 
profane,  ignorant  of  how  to  live.  Now  de- 
cency was  here.  There  was  still  poverty,  but  it 
was  a  respectable  poverty.  Men  brought  home 
their  pay,  and  fought  less  often.  Shawled  wives 
went  less  frequently  with  tin  pails  to  the  side  en- 
trances of  saloons.  It  was  becoming  uncommon 
to  hear  a  child  swear. 

David's  mind  ran  over  the  efforts  by  which 
this  change  had  been  wrought:  Morton's  forc- 
ing the  police  to  close  disorderly  resorts ;  his  elo- 
quent appeals  to  the  public  for  fair  treatment 
of  such  neighbourhoods  as  his;  his  unwearied 
visiting  of  the  sick,  and  his  ready  assumption  of 
the  troubles  of  others;  his  perfect  good-fellow- 
ship, which  made  all  approach  him  freely,  yet 
none  with  disrespectful  familiarity;  his  wonder- 
ful sermons,  so  simple,  direct  and  appealing  that 
there  was  never  an  empty  seat.  He  was  sympa- 
thetic— magnetic — devoted — brilliant.  Thus  he 
had  won  the  neighbourhood ;  not  all,  for  the  evil 
forces  he  had  fought,  led  by  the  boss  of  the  ward, 
held  him  in  bitter  enmity.  But  in  three  or  four 
hundred  families,  he  was  God. 

David  turned  from  the  window.  Mrs. 
Humphrey  had  asked  if  she  should  not  take  him 
in  to  see  Morton,  but  he  had  shrunk  from  having 
eyes  upon  him  when  he  entered  the  presence  of 
his  dead  friend.  He  now  moved  to  the  door  of 
Morton's  chamber,  paused  chokingly,  then 


AN  INJUSTICE  OF  GOD  7 

stepped  into  the  darkened  room.  On  the  bed 
lay  a  slender,  sheeted  figure.  For  the  first  mo- 
ment, awe  at  the  mystery  of  life  rose  above  all 
other  feelings:  Monday  he  had  seen  Morton, 
strangely  depressed  to  be  sure,  but  in  his  usual 
health;  this  was  Saturday,  and  there  he  lay! 

His  emotions  trembling  upon  eruption,  David 
crossed  slowly  to  the  bed.  With  fearing  hand 
he  drew  the  sheet  from  the  face,  and  for  a  long 
space  gazed  down  at  the  fine  straight  nose,  at 
the  deeply-set  eyes,  and  at  the  high  broad  fore- 
head, the  most  splendid  he  had  ever  seen,  with 
the  soft  hair  falling  away  from  it  against  the 
pillow.  Then  suddenly  he  sank  to  a  chair,  and 
his  grief  broke  from  him. 

Soon  his  mind  began  to  dwell  upon  the  con- 
trast between  Morton  and  himself — what  a  great 
light  was  this  that  had  been  stricken  out,  what 
a  pitiable  candle  flame  was  this  left  burning.  In 
the  presence  of  these  dead  powers  he  felt  how 
small  was  his  literary  achievement,  how  small  his 
chance  of  future  success,  how  comparatively 
trivial  that  success  would  be  even  if  gained. 
David  had  felt  to  its  full  the  responsibility  of 
life;  he  had  longed,  with  a  keenness  that  was  at 
times  actual  physical  pain,  that  his  life  might 
count  some  little  what  in  advancing  the  general 
good.  But  he  realised  now,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
white  face  on  the  pillow,  that  in  the  field  of 
humanitarianism,  as  in  the  field  of  literature,  his 
achievement  was  nothing. 

He  burnt  writh  a  sudden  rush  of  shame  that  he 
was  alive,  and  he  clenched  his  hands  and  in  tense 
whispers  cried  out  against  the  injustice  of  God 
in  taking  so  useful  a  man  as  Morton  and  leav- 


8  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ing  so  useless  a  cumbrance  as  himself.  But  this 
defiance  soon  passed  into  a  different  mood.  He 
slipped  to  his  knees,  and  a  wish  sobbed  up  from 
his  heart  that  he  might  change  places  with  the 
figure  on  the  bed. 

This  wish  was  present  in  his  thoughts  all  that 
evening  and  the  next  two  days  as  he  did  his  share 
in  the  sad  routine  of  the  funeral  arrangements. 
The  service  was  set  for  the  evening  so  that  the 
people  of  the  neighbourhood  could  be  present 
without  difficulty  or  financial  loss.  At  the  hour 
of  beginning  the  chapel  was  packed  to  the  doors, 
and  David  learned  afterwards  that  as  large  a 
crowd  stood  without  and  that  many  notables  who 
had  come  at  the  appointed  time  were  unable  to 
gain  any  nearer  the  chapel  than  the  middle  of 
the  street. 

Bishop  Harper  himself  was  in  charge,  and 
about  him  were  gathered  the  best-known  clergy- 
men of  his  persuasion  in  the  city — a  tribute  to 
his  friend  that  quickened  both  David's  pride  and 
grief.  Bishop  Harper  was  ordinarily  a  pomp- 
ous speaker  of  sonorous  platitudes,  ever  con- 
scious of  his  high  office.  But  to-night  he  had  a 
simple,  touching  subject;  he  forgot  himself  and 
spoke  simply,  touchingly.  When  he  used  an 
adjective  it  was  a  superlative,  and  yet  the  super- 
lative did  not  seem  to  reach  the  height  of  Mor- 
ton's worth.  Morton  was  "the  most  gifted,  the 
most  devoted"  man  of  the  Bishop's  acquaint- 
ance, and  the  other  clergymen  by  their  looks 
showed  complete  and  un jealous  approval  of  all 
the  Bishop's  praise. 

David's  eyes  flowed  at  the  tribute  paid  Mor- 
ton by  his  peers.  Yet  he  was  moved  far  more 


AN  INJUSTICE  OF  GOD  9 

by  the  inarticulate  tribute  of  the  simple  people 
who  crowded  the  chapel.  Whatever  was  good 
in  their  lives,  Morton  had  brought  them;  and 
now,  mixed  with  their  sense  of  loss,  was  an  tin- 
shaped  fear  of  how  hard  it  was  going  to  be  to 
hold  fast  to  that  good  without  his  aid.  Never 
before  had  David  seen  anything  so  affecting; 
and  even  in  after  days,  when  he  saw  Morton's 
death  with  new  eyes,  the  picture  of  the  love  and 
grief  of  this  audience  remained  with  him,  un- 
soiled,  as  the  strongest,  sincerest  scene  he  had 
ever  witnessed.  The  women — factory  girls, 
scrub-women,  hard-working  wives — wept  with 
their  souls  in  their  tears  and  in  their  spasmodic 
moans;  and  the  men — labourers,  teamsters,  and 
the  like — let  the  strange  tears  stream  openly 
down  their  cheeks,  unashamed.  The  chapel  was 
one  great  sob,  choked  down  at  times,  at  times 
stopping  the  Bishop's  words.  It  was  as  if  they 
were  all  orphaned. 

All  through  the  service,  one  cry  rose  from 
David's  heart,  and  continued  to  repeat  itself 
while  the  audience,  and  after  them  the  crowd 
from  the  street,  filed  by  the  open  casket — and 
still  rose  as,  later,  he  sat  with  bowed  head  in  a 
front  pew  beside  the  coffin : 

"If  only  I  could  change  places,  and  give  him 
back  to  them!" 


CHAPTER  II 

WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  IN   MORTON'S  CLOSET 

DAVID  was  sitting  in  Morton's  study,  look- 
ing through  the  six  years'  accumulation  of 
letters  and  documents,  saving  some,  destroying 
others,  when  he  came  upon  a  dusty  snapshot 
photograph.  Hands  and  eyes  were  arrested; 
Morton  sank  from  his  mind.  Four  persons  sat 
in  a  little  sailboat;  their  faces  were  wrinkled  in 
sun-smiles ;  about  and  beyond  them  was  the  broad 
white  blaze  of  the  Sound.  The  four  were  Miss 
Chambers  and  her  mother,  Morton  and  himself. 
The  day  of  the  photograph  ran  its  course 
again,  hour  by  hour,  in  David's  mind,  and  slowly 
rose  other  pictures  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Helen  Chambers:  of  their  first  meeting  three 
years  before  at  a  dinner  at  St.  Christopher's 
Mission;  of  later  meetings  at  St.  Christopher's, 
where  she  had  a  club  and  where  he  was  a  fre- 
quent visitor ;  of  the  summer  passed  at  St.  Chris- 
topher's two  years  before,  during  the  early  part 
of  which  he,  in  Morton's  stead,  had  aided  her  in 
selecting  furnishings  for  a  summer  house  given 
by  her  father  for  the  Mission  children;  of  two 
weeks  at  the  end  of  that  summer  which  he  and 
Morton  had  spent  at  Myrtle  Hill,  the  Cham- 
bers's  summer  home  on  the  Sound.  Since  then 
he  had  seen  her  at  irregular  intervals,  and  their 
friendship  had  deepened  with  each  meeting. 

10 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  11 

She  had  interested  his  mind  as  no  other  woman 
had  ever  done.  She  had  been  bred  in  the  con- 
ventions of  her  class,  the  top  strata  of  the  Amer- 
ican aristocracy  of  wealth;  all  her  friends,  save 
those  she  had  gained  at  the  Mission,  belonged 
in  this  class;  and  her  life  had  been  lived  within 
her  class's  boundaries.  Given  these  known  quan- 
tities, an  average  social  algebraist  would  have 
quickly  figured  out  the  unknown  future  to  be,  a 
highly  desirable  marriage,  gowning  and  hatting, 
tea-drinking,  dining,  driving,  calling,  Europe- 
going,  and  the  similar  activities  by  which  women 
of  her  class  reward  God  for  their  creation — and 
in  time,  the  motherhood  of  a  second  generation 
of  her  kind. 

But  there  was  her  character,  which  by  degrees 
had  revealed  itself  fully  to  David:  her  sympa- 
thy, her  love  of  truth,  a  lack  of  belief  in  her 
social  superiority,  an  instinct  to  look  very  clearly, 
very  squarely,  at  things,  a  courage  unconscious 
that  it  was  courage,  that  was  merely  the  natural 
action  of  her  direct  spirit — all  these  dissolved  in 
a  most  simple,  charming  personality.  It  was 
these  qualities  (a  stronger  reprint  of  her 
mother's),  in  one  of  her  position,  that  made 
David  think  her  future  might  possibly  be  other 
than  that  contained  in  the  algebraist's  solution — 
that  made  him  regard  her  as  a  potential  surprise 
to  her  world. 

And  Helen  Chambers  had  interested  not  only 
David's  mind.  In  moments  when  his  courage 
had  been  high  and  his  fancy  had  run  riotously 
free,  he  had  dared  dream  wild  dreams  of  her. 
But  now,  as  he  gazed  at  the  photograph,  he 
sighed.  In  place  and  fortune  she  was  on  the 


12  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

level  of  the  highest ;  he  was  far  below — still  only 
a  straggler,  obscure,  barely  keeping  alive. 

Yes — he  was  still  only  a  straggler.  He 
nodded  as  his  mind  repeated  the  sentence.  Now 
and  then  his  manuscripts  were  accepted — but 
only  now  and  then.  His  English  was  admir- 
able ;  this  he  had  been  told  often.  But  there  was 
a  something  lacking  in  almost  all  he  wrote,  and 
this  too  he  had  been  often  told.  David  had  tried 
to  write  of  the  big  things,  the  real  things — but 
of  such  one  cannot  write  convincingly  till  he  has 
thought  deeply  or  travelled  himself  through  the 
deep  places.  David's  trouble  was,  he  did  not 
know  life — but  no  one  had  told  him  this.  So  in 
his  ignorance  of  the  real  difficulty,  he  had 
thought  to  conquer  his  unsuccess  by  putting 
forth  a  greater  effort.  He  had  gone  out  less 
and  less  often;  he  had  sat  longer  and  longer  at 
his  writing-table;  his  English  had  become  finer 
and  finer.  And  his  people  had  grown  more  hy- 
pothetical, more  unreal.  The  faster  he  ran,  the 
farther  away  was  the  goal. 

He  sighed  again.  Then  his  square  jaw  tight- 
ened, his  eyes  narrowed  to  grim  crescents,  his 
clenched  fist  lightly  pounded  the  desk;  and  to  a 
phalanx  of  imaginary  editors  he  announced  with 
slow  defiance: 

"Some  of  these  days  the  whole  blamed  lot  of 
you  will  be  camping  on  my  door-steps.  You 
just  wait!" 

He  was  returning  to  the  sifting  of  the  let- 
ters when  the  bell  of  the  apartment  rang.  He 
answered  the  ring  himself,  as  Mrs.  Humphrey 
was  out  for  the  afternoon,  and  opened  the  door 
upon  a  shabby,  wrinkled  man  with  a  beery,  cun- 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  13 

ning  smile.  His  manner  suggested  that  he  had 
been  there  before. 

"Is  Mr.  Morton  at  home?"  the  man  asked. 

"No,"  David  answered  shortly,  not  caring  to 
vouchsafe  the  information  that  Morton  was  in 
his  grave  these  two  days.  "But  I  represent 
him." 

"Then  I  guess  I'll  wait." 

"He'll  not  be  back." 

The  man  hesitated,  then  a  dirty  hand  drew  an 
envelope  from  a  torn  pocket.  "I  was  to  give  it 
only  to  him,  but  I  guess  it'll  be  all  right  to  leave 
it  with  you." 

David  closed  the  door,  ripped  open  the  en- 
velope, glanced  at  the  note,  turned  abruptly  and 
re-entered  Morton's  study,  and  read  the  lines 
again : 

"  You  paid  no  attention  to  the  warning  I  sent  you 
last  Friday.  This  is  the  last  time  I  write.  I  must 
get  the  money  to-day,  or  —  you  know !  L.  D." 

He  was  clutched  with  a  vague  fear.  Who 
was  L.  D.?  And  how  could  money  be  thus  de- 
manded of  Morton?  His  mind  was  racing  away 
into  wild  guesses,  when  he  observed  there  was 
no  street  and  number  on  the  note.  In  the  same 
instant  it  flashed  upon  him  that  the  note  must 
be  investigated,  and  that  the  address  of  its 
writer  was  walking  away  in  the  person  of  the  old 
messenger. 

He  caught  his  hat,  rushed  down  the  stairs, 
and  came  upon  the  old  man  just  outside  the  club- 
house entrance. 

"I  want  to  see  the  writer  of  that  note,"  he 
said.  "Give  me  the  address." 


14  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Do  better'n  that.  I'll  go  with  you.  I'm  the 
janitor  there." 

David  was  too  agitated  to  refuse  the  offer. 
They  walked  in  silence  for  several  paces,  then 
the  old  man  jerked  his  head  toward  the  club- 
house and  knowingly  winked  a  watery  eye. 

"Lucky  they  don't  know  where  you're  goin'," 
he  said.  "But  I'm  safe.  Safe  as  a  clam!" 
He  reassured  David  with  his  beery  smile. 

The  vague  dread  increased.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Innocent  front!  Oh,  you're  a  wise  one,  I 
see.  But  you  can  trust  me.  I'm  safe." 

David  was  silent  for  several  paces.  "Who  is 
this  man  L.  D.?" 

"This  man?"  He  cackled.  "This  man! 
Oh,  you'll  do!" 

David  looked  away  in  disgust;  the  old  satyr 
made  him  think  of  the  garbage  of  dissipation. 
All  during  their  fifteen-minute  car  ride  his  in- 
definite fear  changed  from  one  dreadful  shape 
to  another.  After  a  short  walk  the  old  man  led 
the  way  into  a  small  apartment  house,  and  up  the 
stairs. 

He  paused  before  a  door.  "Here's  your 
'man/  "  he  said,  nudging  David  and  giving  his 
dry,  throaty  little  laugh. 

"Thanks,"  said  David. 

But  the  guide  did  not  leave.  "Ain't  you  got 
a  dime  that's  makin'  trouble  for  the  rent  o'  your 
coin?" 

David  handed  him  ten  cents.  "Safe  as  a 
clam,"  he  whispered,  and  went  down  the  stairs 
with  a  cackle  about  "the  man." 

David    hesitated    awhile,    with    high-beating 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  15 

heart,  then  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  a  coloured  maid. 

"Who  lives  here?"  he  asked. 

"Miss  Lillian  Drew." 

David  stepped  inside.  "Please  tell  her  I'd 
like  to  see  her.  I'm  from  Mr.  Morton." 

The  maid  directed  him  toward  the  parlour  and 
went  to  summon  her  mistress.  At  the  parlour 
door  David  was  met  with  the  heavy  perfume  of 
violets.  The  room  was  showily  furnished  with 
gilt,  upholstery,  vivid  hangings,  painted  bric-a- 
brac — all  with  a  stiff  shop-newness  that  sug- 
gested recently  acquired  funds.  An  ash-tray 
on  the  gilded  centre-table  held  several  cigarette 
stubs.  On  the  lid  of  the  upright  piano  was  the 
last  song  that  had  pleased  Broadway,  and  on  the 
piano's  top  stood  a  large  photograph  of  a  man 
with  a  shrewd,  well-fed  face,  his  derby  hat 
pushed  back,  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets,  a 
jewelled  saddle  in  his  necktie.  Across  this  pic- 
ture of  portly  jauntiness  was  scrawled,  "To 
lovely  Lil,  from  Jack." 

David  had  no  more  than  seated  himself  upon 
a  surface  of  blue  chrysanthemums  and  taken  in 
these  impressions,  when  the  portieres  parted  and 
between  them  appeared  a  tall,  slender  woman  in 
a  trained  house-gown  of  pink  silk,  with  pearls 
in  her  ears  and  a  handful  of  rings  on  her  fingers. 
She  looked  thirty-five,  and  had  a  bold,  striking 
beauty,  though  it  was  perhaps  a  trifle  over-ac- 
centuated by  the  pots  and  pencils  of  her  dress- 
ing-table. Possibly  her  nature  had  its  kindly 
strain — doubtless  she  could  smile  alluringly;  but 
just  now  her  dark  eyes  gazed  at  David  in  hard, 
challenging  suspicion. 


16  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

David  rose.     "Is  this  Miss  Drew?" 

"You  are  from  Phil  Morton?"  she  asked. 

He  shivered  at  the  implied  familiarity  with 
Morton.  "I  am." 

She  crossed  to  a  chair  and,  as  she  seated  her- 
self, spread  her  train  fan- wise  to  its  full  display. 
Her  near  presence  seemed  to  uncork  new  bottles 
of  violet  perfume. 

"Why  didn't  he  come  himself?"  she  demanded, 
her  quick,  brilliant  eyes  directly  upon  David. 

It  was  as  her  note  had  indicated — she  didn't 
read  the  papers.  Obeying  an  unformed  policy, 
David  refrained  from  acquainting  her  with  the 
truth. 

"He's  not  at  home.  I've  come  because  his  af- 
fairs are  left  with  me." 

Her  eyes  gleamed.  "So  he's  run  away  from 
home!"  She  sneered,  but  the  sneer  could  not 
wholly  hide  her  disappointment.  "That  won't 
save  himl"  She  paused  an  instant.  "Well — 
what 're  you  here  for?" 

"I  told  you  I  represent  him." 

"You're  his  lawyer?" 

"I'm  his  friend." 

"Well,  I'm  listening.     Go  on." 

The  fear  had  taken  on  an  almost  definite 
shape.  David  shrunk  from  what  he  was  begin- 
ning to  see.  But  it  was  his  duty  to  settle  the 
affair,  and  settle  it  he  could  not  without  knowing 
its  details.  "To  begin  with,  I  shall  have  to  ask 
some  information  from  you,"  he  said  with  an 
effort.  "Mr.  Morton  left  this  matter  entirely 
in  my  hands,  but  he  told  me  nothing  concerning 
its  nature." 

She  half  closed  her  eyes,  and  regarded  David 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  17 

intently.  "You  brought  the  money?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"No." 

"Then  he's "  She  made  a  grim  cipher 

with  her  forefinger,  and  stood  up.  "If  there's 
no  money,  good  afternoon!" 

David  did  not  rise.  He  guessed  her  dismissal 
to  be  a  bit  of  play-acting.  "Whatever  comes 
to  you  must  come  through  me,"  he  said,  "and 
you  of  course  realise  that  nothing  can  come  from 
me  till  I  understand  the  situation." 

"He  understands  it.     That's  enough." 

"Oh,  very  well  then.  I  see  you  want  noth- 
ing." David  determined  to  try  play-acting  him- 
self. He  rose.  "Let  it  be  good-afternoon." 

She  stopped  him  at  the  portieres,  as  he  had  ex- 
pected. "It's  mighty  queer,  when  Morton's 
been  trying  hard  to  keep  this  thing  between  him- 
self and  me,  for  him  to  send  a  third  person 
here." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  he  returned  with  a  show 
of  indifference. 

"But  how  do  I  know  you  really  represent 
him?" 

"You  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Or  you  can 
telephone  St.  Christopher's  and  ask  if  David 
Aldrich  is  not  in  charge  of  his  affairs." 

She  eyed  him  steadily  for  a  space.  "You  look 
on  the  square,"  she  said  abruptly;  then  she 
added  with  an  ominous  look:  "If  there's  no 
money,  you  know  what'll  happen!" 

David  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  told  you  I 
know  nothing." 

She  was  thoughtfully  silent  for  several  min- 
utes, David  studied  her  face,  in  preparation  for 


18  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

the  coming  conflict.  He  saw  that  appeal  to  her 
better  parts  would  avail  nothing.  He  could 
guess  that  she  needed  money;  it  was  plainly  her 
nature,  when  roused,  to  spare  nothing  to  gain  her 
desire.  And  if  defeated,  she  could  be  vindic- 
tive, malevolent. 

In  her  inward  struggle  between  caution  and 
desire  for  money,  greed  had  the  assistance  of 
her  pride;  for  a  woman  living  upon  her  attrac- 
tion for  men,  is  by  nature  vain  of  her  conquests. 
Also,  David's  physical  appearance  was  an  ele- 
ment in  the  contest.  Her  quick  bold  eyes,  look- 
ing him  over,  noted  that  he  was  tall  and  straight, 
square  of  shoulder,  good-looking. 

Greed  and  its  allies  won.  "Well,  if  you  want 
to  know,  come  back,"  she  said. 

David  resumed  his  seat.  She  stood  thinking 
a  moment,  then  went  to  a  writing-desk.  For 
all  his  suspense,  David  was  aware  she  was  try- 
ing to  display  her  graces  and  her  gown.  She 
rustled  to  his  chair  with  the  unhinged  halves  of 
a  gold  locket  in  her  hand. 

"Suppose  we  begin  here,"  she  said,  handing 
him  one  half  of  the  locket.  "Perhaps  you'll  rec- 
ognise it — though  that  was  taken  in  eighty- 
five." 

David  did  recognise  it.  It  was  Lillian  Drew 
at  twenty.  The  face  was  fresh  and  spirited,  and 
had  in  an  exceptional  measure  the  sort  of  beauty 
admired  in  the  front  row  of  a  musical-comedy 
chorus.  It  was  not  a  bad  face;  had  the  girl's 
previous  ten  years  been  otherwise,  the  present 
Lillian  Drew  wrould  have  been  a  very  different 
woman ;  but  the  face  showed  plainly  that  she  had 
gone  too  far  for  any  but  an  extraordinary  power 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  19 

or  experience  to  turn  her  about.  It  was  bold, 
striking,  luring — a  face  of  strong  appeal  to 
man's  baser  half — telling  of  a  girl  who  would 
make  advances  if  the  man  held  back. 

David  felt  that  she  waited  for  praise.  "It's  a 
handsome  face." 

"You're  not  the  first  to  say  so,"  she  returned, 
proudly. 

She  let  him  gaze  at  the  picture  a  full  minute, 
keenly  watching  his  face  for  her  beauty's  effect. 
Then  she  continued:  . 

"That  is  the  picture  of  a  girl  in  Boston.  And 
this" — a  jewelled  hand  gave  him  the  locket's 
other  half — "is  a  young  man  in  Harvard." 

David  knew  whose  likeness  was  in  the  locket, 
yet  something  snapped  sharply  within  him  when 
he  looked  upon  the  boyish  face  of  Morton  at 
twenty-one.  It  was  the  snap  of  suspense.  His 
fear  was  now  certainty. 

"She  probably  wouldn't  have  suited  you" — 
the  tone  declared  she  certainly  would — "but  Phil 
Morton  certainly  had  it  bad  for  four  or  five 
months." 

David  forced  himself  to  his  duty — to  search 
this  relationship  to  its  limits.  "And  then — he 
broke  it  off?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  desire  to 
make  her  smart. 

"No  man  ever  threw  me  down,"  she  returned 
sharply,  her  cheeks  flushing.  "I  got  tired  of 
him.  A  woman  soon  gets  tired  of  a  mere  boy 
like  that.  And  he  was  repenting  about  a  third 
of  the  time,  and  preaching  to  me  about  reform- 
ing myself.  To  live  with  a  man  like  that it's 

not  living.     I  dropped  him." 

"But  all  this  was  fifteen  years  ago,"  David 


20  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

said,  calm  by  an  effort.  "What  has  that  to  do 
with  your  note?" 

She  sank  into  a  chair  before  him,  and  ran  the 
tip  of  her  tongue  between  her  thin  lips.  She 
leaned  back  luxuriously,  clasped  her  be-ringed 
hands  behind  her  head,  and  regarded  him  amus- 
edly from  beneath  her  pencilled  eye-lashes. 

"A  woman  comes  to  New  York  about  four 
months  ago.  She  was — well,  things  hadn't  been 
going  very  well  with  her.  After  a  month  she 
learns  a  man  is  in  town  she  had  once — temporar- 
ily married.  She  hasn't  heard  anything  about 
him  for  fifteen  years.  He  is  a  minister,  and  has 
a  reputation.  She  has  some  letters  he  wrote  her 
while  they  had  been — such  good  friends.  She 
guesses  he  would  just  as  soon  the  letters  should 
not  be  made  public.  She  has  a  talk  with  him; 
she  guessed  right  .  .  .  Now  you  under- 
stand?" 

David  leaned  forward,  his  face  pale.  "You 
mean  Morton  has  been  paying  you — to  keep 
still?" 

She  laughed  softly.  She  was  enjoying  this 
display  of  her  power.  "In  the  last  three  months 
he  has  paid  me  the  trifling  sum  of  five  thousand." 

David  stared  at  her. 

"And  he's  going  to  pay  me  a  lot  more,  or — 
the  letters!" 

His  head  sank  before  her  bright,  triumphant 
eyes,  and  he  was  silent.  He  was  a  confusion  of 
thoughts  and  emotions,  amid  which  only  one 
thought  was  distinct — to  protect  Morton  if  he 
could.  He  tried  to  push  all  else  from  his  mind 
and  think  of  this  alone. 

A  minute  or  more  passed.     Then  he  looked 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  21 

up.  His  face  was  still  pale,  but  set  and  hard. 
"You  are  mistaken  in  at  least  one  point,"  he  said. 

"And  that?" 

"About  the  money  you  are  going  to  get. 
There'll  be  no  more." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  with  amused  superior- 

ity. 

"Because  the  letters  are  valueless."  He 
watched  her  sharply  to  see  the  effect  of  his  next 
words.  "Philip  Morton  was  buried  two  days 
ago." 

Her  hands  fell  from  her  head  and  she  stood 
up,  suddenly  white.  "It's  a  lie!" 

"He  was  buried  two  days  ago,"  David  re- 
peated. 

Her  colour  came  back,  and  she  sneered.  "It's 
a  lie.  You're  trying  to  trick  me." 

David  rose,  drew  out  a  handful  of  clippings 
he  had  cut  from  the  newspapers,  and  silently 
held  them  toward  her.  She  glanced  at  a  head- 
line, and  her  face  went  pale  again.  She 
snatched  the  clippings,  read  one  half  through, 
then  flung  them  all  from  her,  and  abruptly 
turned  about — as  David  guessed,  to  hide  from 
him  the  show  of  her  loss. 

In  a  few  moments  she  wheeled  around,  wear- 
ing a  defiant  smile.  "Then  I  shall  make  the  let- 
ters public  1" 

"What  good  will  that  do  you?  Think  of  all 
those  people " 

"What  do  I  care  for  those  people!"  she  cried. 
"I'll  let  them  see  what  their  saint  was  like!" 

David  stepped  squarely  before  her;  his  tall 
form  towered  above  her,  his  dark  eyes  gleamed 
into  hers.  "You  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,'1 


22  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

he  said  harshly.     "You  are  going  to  turn  over 
the  letters  to  me." 

She  did  not  give  back  a  step.  "Oh,  I  am, 
am  I!"  she  sneered.  At  this  close  range,  pene- 
trating the  violet  perfume,  he  caught  a  new 
odour — brandy. 

"You  certainly  are!  You're  guilty  of  the 
crime  of  blackmail.  You've  confessed  it  to  me, 
and  I  have  your  letter  demanding  money— 
there's  proof  enough.  The  punishment  is  years 
in  prison.  Give  me  those  letters,  or  I'll  have  a 
policeman  here  in  five  minutes." 

She  was  shaken,  but  she  forced  another  sneer. 
"To  take  me  to  court  is  the  quickest  way  to  make 
the  letters  public,"  she  returned.  "You're  bluff- 
ing." 

He  was,  to  an  extent — but  he  knew  his  bluff 
was  a  strong  one.  "If  you  keep  them,  you  will 
give  them  out,"  he  went  on  grimly.  "Between 
your  making  them  public  and  going  unharmed, 
and  their  coming  out  in  the  course  of  the  trial 
that  will  send  you  to  prison,  I  choose  the  latter. 
Morton  is  dead;  the  letters  can't  hurt  him  now. 
And  I'd  like  to  see  you  suffer.  The  letters,  or 
prison — take  your  choice!" 

She  slowly  drew  back  from  him,  and  her  look 
of  defiance  gave  place  to  fear.  She  stared  with- 
out speaking  at  his  square  face,  fierce  with  de- 
termination— at  his  roused,  dominating  mascu- 
linity. 

"Which  is  it  to  be?" 

She  did  not  move. 

"You  choose  prison  then.  Very  well.  I'll 
be  back  in  five  minutes." 

He  turned  and  started  to  leave  the  room. 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  23 

"Wait!" 

He  looked  round  and  saw  a  thoroughly  fright- 
ened face. 

"I'll  get  them." 

She  passed  out  through  the  heflowered  por- 
tieres, and  in  a  few  minutes  returned  with  a 
packet  of  yellow  letters,  which  she  laid  in  David's 
hand. 

"These  are  all?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes." 

A  more  experienced  investigator  might  have 
detected  an  unnatural  note  in  her  voice  that 
would  have  prompted  a  further  pursuit  of  his 
question;  but  David  was  satisfied,  and  did  not 
mark  a  cunning  look  as  he  passed  on. 

"Here's  another  matter,"  he  said  threaten- 
ingly. "If  ever  a  breath  of  this  comes  out,  I'll 
know  it  comes  from  you,  and  up  you'll  go  for 
blackmail.  Understand?" 

Now  that  danger  was  over  her  boldness  began 
to  flow  back  into  her.  "I  do,"  she  said  lightly. 

He  left  her  standing  amid  her  crumpled,  for- 
gotten train.  As  he  was  passing  into  the  hall, 
she  called  to  him: 

"Hold  on  1" 

He  turned  about. 

She  looked  at  him  with  fear,  effrontery,  ad- 
miration. "You're  all  right!"  she  cried. 
"You're  a  real  man!" 

As  David  came  into  the  street,  his  masterful 
bearing  fell  from  him  like  a  loosened  garment. 
There  was  no  disbelieving  the  prideful  revela- 
tion of  Lillian  Drew — and  as  he  walked  on  he 
found  himself  breathing,  "Thank  God  for 


24  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Philip's  death!"  Had  Philip  lived,  with  that 
woman  dangling  him  at  the  precipitous  edge  of 
exposure,  life  would  have  been  only  misery  and 
fear — and  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  given 
him  a  push  and  over  he  would  have  gone. 
Death  comes  too  late  to  some  men  for  their  best 
fame,  and  to  some  too  early.  To  Philip  Mor- 
ton it  had  come  in  the  nick  of  time. 

One  thought,  that  at  first  had  been  merely  a 
vague  wonder,  grew  greater  and  greater  till  it 
fairly  pressed  all  else  from  David's  mind :  where 
had  Philip  got  the  five  thousand  dollars  for 
which  Lillian  Drew  had  sold  him  three  months' 
silence?  David  knew  that  Philip  Morton  had 
not  a  penny  of  private  fortune,  only  his  income 
as  head  of  the  Mission;  and  that  of  this  income 
not  a  dollar  had  been  laid  by,  so  open  had  been 
his  purse  to  the  hand  of  distress.  He  could  not 
have  borrowed  the  money  in  the  usual  manner, 
for  he  had  no  security  to  give;  and  sums  such  as 
this  are  not  blindly  loaned  with  mere  friendship 
as  the  pawn. 

David  entered  Philip's  study  with  this  new 
dread  pulsing  through  him.  It  was  his  duty  to 
his  friend  to  know  the  truth,  and  besides,  his 
suspense  was  too  acute  to  permit  remaining  in 
passive  ignorance;  so  he  locked  the  study  door 
and  began  seeking  evidence  to  dispel  or  con- 
firm his  fear.  He  took  the  books  from  the  safe 
— he  remembered  the  combination  from  the  sum- 
mer he  had  spent  at  the  Mission — and  turned 
them  through,  afraid  to  look  at  each  new  page. 
But  the  books  dealt  only  with  small  sums  for 
incidental  expenses;  the  large  bills  were  paid  by 
cheque  from  the  treasurer  of  the  Board  of  Trus- 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  25 

tees.  There  was  nothing  here.  He  looked 
through  the  papers  in  the  desk — among  them  no 
reference  to  the  money.  He  scrutinised  every 
page  of  paper  in  the  safe,  except  the  contents  of 
one  locked  compartment.  No  reference. 
Knowing  he  would  find  nothing,  he  examined 
Morton's  private  bank-book:  a  record  of  the 
monthly  cheque  deposited  and  numerous  small 
withdrawals — that  was  all. 

And  then  he  picked  up  a  note-book  that  all  the 
while  had  been  lying  on  the  desk.  He  began  to 
thumb  it  through,  not  with  hope  of  discovering 
a  clue  but  merely  as  a  routine  act  of  a  thorough 
search.  It  was  half  engagement  book,  half 
diary.  David  turned  to  the  page  dated  with  the 
day  of  Morton's  death,  intending  to  work  from 
there  backwards — and  upon  the  page  he  found 
this  note  of  an  engagement: 

"  5  P.  M. —  at  Mr.  Haddon's  office  —  first  fall  meet- 
ing of  Boy's  Farm  Committee." 

He  turned  slowly  back  through  the  leaves  of 
September,  August,  July,  June,  finding  not  a 
single  suggestive  record.  But  this  memoran- 
dum, on  the  fifteenth  of  May,  stopped  him 
short : 

"  Boy's  Farm  Committee  adjourned  to-day  till  fall, 
as  Mr.  Chambers  and  Mr.  Haddon  go  to  Europe. 
Money  left  in  Third  National  Bank  in  my  name,  to  pay 
for  farm  when  formalities  of  sale  are  completed." 

Instantly  David  thought  of  an  entry  on  the 
first  of  June  recording  that,  with  everything  set- 
tled save  merely  the  binding  formalities,  the 
farmer  had  suddenly  broken  off  the  deal,  hav- 
ing had  a  better  offer. 


26  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

•Here  was  the  money,  every  instinct  told 
David.  But  the  case  was  not  yet  proved;  the 
money  might  be  lying  in  the  bank,  untouched. 
He  grasped  at  this  chance.  There  must  be  a 
bank-book  and  cheque-book  somewhere,  he 
knew,  and  as  he  had  searched  the  office  like  a 
pocket,  except  for  the  drawer  of  the  safe,  he 
guessed  they  must  be  there.  After  a  long  hunt 
for  the  key  to  this  drawer,  he  found  a  bunch  of 
keys  in  the  trousers  Morton  had  worn  the  day 
before  his  death.  One  of  these  opened  the 
drawer,  and  sure  enough  here  were  cheque-book 
and  bank-book. 

David  gazed  at  these  for  a  full  minute  before 
he  gained  sufficient  mastery  of  himself  to  open 
the  bank-book.  On  the  first  page  was  this  sin- 
gle line: 

May  15.     By  deposit 5,000 

This  was  the  only  entry,  and  the  fact  gave 
him  a  moment's  hope.  He  opened  the  cheque- 
book— and  his  hope  was  gone.  Seven  stubs  re- 
corded that  seven  cheques  had  been  drawn  to 
"self,"  four  for  $500  each,  and  three  for  $1,000. 

Even  amid  the  chill  of  horror  that  now  en- 
wrapped him,  David  clearly  understood  how 
Morton  had  permitted  himself  to  use  this  fund. 
Here  was  a  woman  with  power  to  destroy,  de- 
manding money.  Here  was  money  for  which 
account  need  not  be  rendered  for  months.  In 
Morton's  situation  a  man  of  strong  will,  of  cour- 
ageous integrity,  might  have  resigned  and  told 
the  woman  to  do  her  worst.  But  David  sud- 
denly saw  again  Morton's  dead  face  upon  the 
pillow,  and  he  was  startled  to  see  that  the  mouth 


WHAT  DAVID  FOUND  27 

was  small,  the  chin  weak.  He  now  recognised, 
what  he  would  have  recognised  before  had  the 
fault  not  been  hidden  among  a  thousand  virtues, 
that  Morton  did  not  have  a  strong  will.  He 
recognised  that  a  man  might  have  genius  and 
all  the  virtues,  save  only  courage,  and  yet  fail 
to  carry  himself  honourably  through  a  crisis  that 
a  man  of  merest  mediocrity  might  have  weath- 
ered well. 

If  exposure  came — so  Temptation  must  have 
spoken  to  Morton — all  that  he  had  done  for  his 
neighbours  would  be  destroyed,  and  with  it  all 
his  power  for  future  service.  He  could  take 
five  hundred  dollars,  buy  the  woman's  silence, 
and  somehow  replace  the  money  before  he  need 
account  for  his  trust.  But  she  had  demanded 
more,  and  more,  and  more;  and  once  involved, 
his  only  safety,  and  that  but  temporary,  was  to 
go  on — with  the  terror  of  the  day  of  reckoning 
before  him. 

And  then,  while  he  sat  chilled,  David's  mind 
began  to  add  mechanically  three  things  together. 
First,  the  engagement  Philip  had  had  on  the 
day  of  his  death  with  the  Boys'  Farm  Commit- 
tee; at  that  he  would  have  had  to  account  for 
the  five  thousand  dollars,  and  his  embezzlement 
would  have  been  laid  open.  Second,  the  cer- 
tainty of  exposure  from  Lillian  Drew,  since  he 
had  no  more  money  to  ward  it  off.  Third,  was 
it  not  remarkable  that  Morton's  heart  trouble,  if 
heart  trouble  there  had  been,  with  fifteen  hun- 
dred minutes  in  the  day  in  which  to  strike,  had 
selected  the  single  minute  he  spent  in  his  bath? 

As  David  struck  the  sum  of  these,  there 
crawled  into  his  heart  another  awful  fear. 


28  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Would  a  man  who  had  not  had  the  courage  to 
face  the  danger  of  one  exposure,  have  the  cour- 
age to  face  a  double  exposure?  Had  Morton's 

death  been  natural,  or 

Sickened,  David  let  his  head  fall  forward  upon 
his  arms,  folded  on  the  desk — and  so  he  sat,  mo- 
tionless, as  twilight,  then  darkness,  crept  into 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BARGAIN 

DAVID  was  still  sitting  bowed  amid  ap- 
palling darkness,  when  Mrs.  Humphrey 
knocked  and  called  to  him  that  dinner  waited. 
He  had  no  least  desire  for  food,  and  as  he  feared 
his  face  might  advertise  his  discoveries  to  Dr. 
Thorn  and  Mrs.  Humphrey,  he  slipped  out  of 
the  apartment  and  sent  word  by  the  janitor  that 
he  would  not  be  in  to  dinner.  For  an  hour  and 
a  half  he  walked  the  tenement-cliffed  streets, 
trying  to  force  his  distracted  mind  to  deduce  the 
probable  consequences  of  Morton's  acts. 

At  length  one  result  stood  forth  distinct,  in- 
evitable :  Morton's  death  was  not  going  to  save 
his  good  name.  In  a  few  days  his  embezzlement 
would  be  discovered.  There  would  be  an  inves- 
tigation as  to  what  he  had  done  with  the  money. 
Try  as  the  committee  might  to  keep  the  matter 
secret,  the  embezzlement  would  leak  out  and  af- 
ford sensational  copy  for  the  papers.  Lillian 
Drew,  out  of  her  malevolence,  would  manage  to 
triple  the  scandal  with  her  story ;  and  then  some- 
one would  climax  the  two  exposures  by  putting 
one  and  one  together,  as  he  had  done,  and  de- 
ducing that  Morton's  lamented  death  was  sui- 
cide. In  a  week,  perhaps  in  three  days,  all  New 
York  would  know  what  David  knew. 

29 


30  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  was  re-entering  the  club-house,  shortly 
after  eight  o'clock,  when  the  sound  of  singing  in 
the  chapel  reminded  him  that  the  regular  Thurs- 
day even  prayer-meeting  had  been  turned  into 
a  neighbourhood  memorial  service  for  Morton. 
He  slipped  quietly  into  the  rear  of  the  chapel. 
It  was  crowded,  as  at  the  funeral.  Dr.  Thorn, 
who  was  temporarily  at  the  head  of  the  Mission, 
was  on  the  rostrum,  but  a  teamster  from  the 
neighbourhood  was  in  charge  of  the  meeting. 
The  order  of  the  service  consisted  of  brief  trib- 
utes to  Morton,  brief  statements  of  what  he  had 
meant  to  their  lives.  As  David  listened  to  the 
testimonies,  uncouth  in  the  wording,  but  splen- 
did in  feeling,  the  speaker  sometimes  stopped  by 
his  own  emotion,  sometimes  by  sobbing  from  the 
audience — his  tears  loosened  and  flowed  with 
theirs. 

And  then  came  a  change  in  his  view-point. 
He  found  himself  thinking,  not  of  Morton  the 
individual,  Morton  his  friend,  but  of  Morton  in 
his  relation  to  these  people.  What  great  good 
he  had  brought  them!  How  dependent  they  had 
been  upon  him,  how  they  now  clung  to  him  and 
were  lifted  up  by  his  memory!  And  how  they 
loved  him! 

But  what  would  they  be  saying  about  him  a 
week  hence? 

The  question  plunged  into  David  like  a  knife. 
He  hurried  from  the  chapel  and  upstairs  into 
Morton's  study.  Here  was  the  most  ghastly  of 
all  the  consequences  of  Morton's  deeds.  What 
would  be  the  effect  on  these  people  of  the  knowl- 
edge he  had  gained  that  afternoon?  They  were 
not  discriminating,  could  not  select  the  good,  dis- 


THE  BARGAIN  31 

card  and  forget  the  evil.  He  still  loved  Mor- 
ton ;  Morton  to  him  was  a  man  strong  and  great 
at  ninety-nine  points,  weak  at  one.  Impregna- 
ble at  all  other  points,  temptations  had  assailed 
his  one  weakness,  conquered  him  and  turned  his 
life  into  complete  disaster.  But,  David  realised, 
the  neighbourhood  could  not  see  Morton  as  he 
saw  him.  They  could  see  only  the  evils  of  his 
one  point  of  weakness,  see  him  only  as  guilty  of 
larger  sins  than  the  most  sinful  of  themselves — 
as  a  libertine,  an  embezzler,  a  suicide. 

And  they  would  be  helped  to  this  new  view 
by  the  elements  he  had  fought.  How  old  Boss 
Grogan  would  rejoice  in  Morton's  fall — how  his 
one  eye  would  light  up,  and  triumph  overspread 
his  veinous,  pouched  face!  How  he  and  his 
henchmen,  victory-sure,  would  return  to  their  at- 
tack on  the  Mission,  going  among  its  people  with 
sneers  at  Morton  and  at  them! 

There  was  no  doubt  in  David's  mind  of  the 
effect  of  all  this  upon  them.  The  words  of  a 
shrivelled  old  woman  who  had  given  tribute  in 
the  chapel  stayed  in  his  memory.  "He  has  been 
to  me  like  St.  Christopher,  what  this  place  is 
called  from,"  she  had  quavered.  "He  holds  me 
in  his  arms  and  carries  me  over  the  dark  waters." 
Exactly  the  case  with  all  of  them,  David 
thought.  Morton,  who  had  lifted  them  out  of 
darkness,  was  supporting  them  over  the  ferry  of 
life — till  a  few  days  ago  by  his  presence  among 
them,  now  and  in  the  future  by  the  powerful 
influence  in  which  he  had  enarmed  them.  Once 
they  saw  their  St.  Christopher  as  baser  than 
themselves  [and  what  a  picture  Grogan  would 
keep  before  their  eyes!],  they  would  call  him 


32  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

hypocrite,  despise  his  support  and  the  shore 
whither  he  carried  them;  his  strength  to  save 
them  would  be  gone,  and  they  would  fall  back 
into  the  darkness  out  of  which  they  had  been 
gathered. 

David's  concern  was  now  all  for  these  unsus- 
pecting hundreds  mourning  and  praising  Mor- 
ton in  the  chapel.  Presently,  amid  the  chaos  in 
his  mind,  one  thought  assumed  definite  shape: 
if  the  people  were  kept  in  ignorance,  if  Morton 
were  kept  pure  in  their  eyes,  would  not  their  love 
for  him,  the  saving  influence  he  had  set  about 
them,  remain  just  as  potent  as  though  he  were 
in  truth  unspotted?  Yes — without  doubt. 
And  then  this  question  asked  itself:  could  they 
be  kept  in  ignorance?  Yes,  if  the  embezzlement 
could  be  concealed — for  Morton's  relations  with 
Lillian  Drew  and  his  suicide  would  come  before 
the  public  only  by  being  dragged,  as  it  were,  by 
this  engine  of  disgrace. 

David's  whole  mind,  his  whole  being,  was  sud- 
denly gripped  by  the  thought  that  by  conceal- 
ing the  embezzlement  he  could  save  these  hun- 
dreds of  persons  from  falling  back  into  the  abyss. 
But  how  conceal  it?  The  answer  was  ready  at 
his  mind's  ear:  by  replacing  the  money.  But 
where  get  the  money?  He  had  almost  nothing 
himself,  for  the  little  fortune  from  his  father 
with  which  he  had  been  eking  out  his  meagre 
earnings  was  now  in  its  last  dollars,  and  he  had 
hardly  a  friend  in  New  York.  Again  the  an- 
swer was  ready:  take  into  the  secret  some  rich 
man  interested  in  the  Mission — he'd  gladly  fur- 
nish the  money  rather  than  have  St.  Christo- 
pher's dishonoured. 


THE  BARGAIN  33 

This  idea  rapidly  shaped  itself  into  a  definite 
plan.  At  half-past  nine  David  left  the  study 
and  descended  the  stairs,  with  the  decision  to 
complete  the  lesser  details  of  his  scheme  that 
night,  leaving  only  the  getting  of  the  money  for 
the  morrow.  The  moment  he  stepped  into  the 
never-quiet  street,  he  pressed  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  club-house  entrance,  for  out  of  the 
chapel  was  filing  the  mourning  crowd — some  of 
the  women  crying  silently,  some  of  the  men  hav- 
ing traces  of  recent  tears,  all  stricken  with  their 
heavy  loss.  Yes,  their  loss  was  grievous,  but, 
God  helping  him,  that  which  was  left  them  they 
should  not  lose! — and  David  gazed  upon  them 
till  the  last  was  out,  with  a  tingling  glow  of 
saviourship. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  standing  before  the 
apartment  house  he  had  visited  that  afternoon. 
A  dull  glow  through  Lillian  Drew's  shades  in- 
formed him  she  was  at  home;  and,  glancing 
through  the  open  basement  window  into  the 
janitor's  apartment,  he  saw  his  guide  of  the 
afternoon  stretched  on  a  shabby  lounge.  He 
was  not  proud  of  the  part  he  was  about  to  play.; 
but  for  Lillian  Drew  to  remain  in  town—dan- 
ger was  in  this  that  must  be  avoided. 

That  afternoon  he  had  noticed  there  was  a 
telephone  in  the  house.  He  now  walked  back 
to  a  drug  store  on  whose  front  he  had  seen  the 
sign  of  a  public  telephone.  He  closed  himself 
in  the  booth,  and  soon  had  Lillian  Drew  on  the 
wire. 

"This  is  a  friend  with  a  tip,"  he  said.  "I  just 
happened  to  overhear  a  man  ask  a  policeman  to 
come  with  him  to  arrest  you." 


34  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"What  was  the  man  like?"  came  tremulously 
from  the  receiver. 

David  began  a  faithful  description  of  him- 
self, but  before  he  was  half  through  he  heard 
the  receiver  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  click 
into  place  upon  its  hook.  He  returned  to  where 
he  had  a  view  of  the  entrance  of  the  apartment 
house,  and  almost  at  once  he  saw  Lillian  Drew 
come  hurriedly  out.  He  then  walked  over  to 
Broadway,  asked  a  policeman  to  arrest  a  woman 
on  his  complaint,  and  led  the  officer  to  the  apart- 
ment house. 

He  rang  the  janitor's  bell,  and  after  a  minute 
it  was  answered  by  his  "safe"  friend.  He  put 
on  his  most  ominous  look.  "Is  Lillian  Drew 
in?"  he  demanded. 

"No;  she  just  went  out,"  the  janitor  answered, 
glancing  in  fear  at  the  policeman. 

The  officer  gave  him  a  shove.  "Bluffin*  don't 
work  on  me.  You  just  take  us  up,  you  old 
booze-tank,  and  we'll  have  a  look  around  for  our- 
selves." 

They  searched  the  flat,  followed  about  by  the 
frightened  black  maid,  but  found  no  Lillian 
Drew.  As  they  were  leaving  the  house  David 
again  directed  his  ominous  look  upon  the  jani- 
tor. "Don't  you  tell  her  we  were  here,"  he  or- 
dered; and  then  he  whispered  to  the  policeman, 
but  for  the  janitor's  ears,  "I'll  get  her  in  the 
morning." 

He  walked  away  with  the  officer,  but  quickly 
returned  to  his  place  of  observation.  He  saw 
the  janitor  come  furtively  out  and  hurry  away, 
and  in  a  little  while  he  saw  Lillian  Drew  enter 
• — and  he  knew  that  the  janitor,  who  had  sum- 


THE  BARGAIN  85 

moned  her,  had  told  of  her  narrow  escape  and  of 
the  danger  in  which  she  stood. 

He  wandered  about,  passing  the  house  from 
time  to  time.  Toward  twelve  o'clock,  when  he 
again  drew  near  the  house,  the  great  van  of  a 
storage  warhouse  was  before  it,  and  men  were 
carrying  out  furniture.  Beside  the  van  stood 
an  express  wagon  in  which  was  a  trunk,  and 
coming  out  of  the  doorway  was  a  man  bearing 
on  his  back  another  trunk,  from  the  end  of  which 
dangled  a  baggage  check.  As  the  man  stag- 
gered across  the  sidewalk,  David  stepped  be- 
hind him,  caught  the  tag  and  read  it  by  the  light 
that  streamed  from  the  entrance.  The  trunk 
was  checked  to  Chicago. 

Lillian  Drew  would  make  no  trouble.  One 
part  of  his  plan  was  completed.  Half  an  hour 
later  David  was  back  in  Morton's  study,  begin- 
ning another  part  of  his  preparation.  To  pre- 
vent suspicion  when  the  Boys'  Farm  Committee 
discovered  the  replaced  money,  to  make  it  appear 
that  the  drawing  of  the  fund  was  no  more  than 
a  business  absurdity  such  as  is  normally  expected 
from  clergymen,  David  had  determined  to 
surround  the  presence  of  the  money  in  the 
safe  with  the  formality  of  an  account. 
At  the  head  of  a  slip  of  paper  he  wrote,  "Cash 
Account  of  Boys'  Summer  Home,"  and  beneath 
it,  copying  from  the  stubs  of  the  cheque-book: 
"June  7,  Drawn  from  Bank  $500" ;  and  beneath 
this,  under  their  respective  dates,  the  six  other 
amounts.  Then  at  the  foot  of  these  he  wrote 
under  date  of  September  fifteenth,  the  day  be- 
fore Morton's  death,  "Cash  on  hand,  $5,000." 

These  items  he  set  down  in  a  fair  copy  of 


36  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Morton's  hand,  not  a  difficult  mimicry  since 
their  writing  was  naturally  much  alike  and  had 
a  further  similarity  from  their  both  using  stub 
pens.  He  wrote  with  an  ink,  which  he  had  se- 
cured for  the  purpose  on  his  way  home,  that 
immediately  after  drying  was  of  as  dead  a  black 
as  though  it  had  been  on  paper  for  weeks.  He 
put  the  slip,  with  the  bank-book  and  cheque- 
book, into  the  drawer  of  the  safe.  To-morrow 
the  five  thousand  dollars  would  go  in  there  with 
them,  and  Morton's  name,  and  the  people  of  St. 
Christopher's,  would  be  secure. 

He  had  not  yet  disposed  of  the  letters  Lillian 
Drew  had  given  him.  He  carried  the  packet 
into  the  sitting-room,  tore  the  letters  into  shreds 
and  heaped  them  in  the  grate  between  the  brass 
andirons.  Then  he  touched  a  match  to  the  yel- 
low pile,  and  watched  the  destroying  flames 
spring  from  the  record  of  Morton's  unholy  love 
— as  though  they  were  the  red  spirit  of  that  pas- 
sion leaping  free.  He  sat  for  a  long  space,  the 
dead  hush  of  sleep  about  him,  gazing  at  where 
the  heap  had  been.  Only  ashes  were  left  by 
those  passionate  flames.  A  symbol  of  Morton, 
thus  it  struck  David's  fancy.  Just  so  those 
flames  had  left  of  Morton  only  ashes. 

The  next  morning  David  had  before  him  the 
task  of  getting  the  money.  He  had  determined 
to  approach  Mr.  Chambers  first,  and  he  was  in 
the  great  banking  house  of  Alexander  Cham- 
bers &  Company,  in  Wall  Street,  as  early  as  he 
thought  he  could  decently  appear  there.  He 
was  informed  that  Mr.  Chambers  had  gone  out 
to  attend  several  directors'  meetings — not  very 
surprising,  since  Mr.  Chambers  was  a  director 


THE  BARGAIN  37 

in  half  a  hundred  companies — and  that  the  time 
of  his  return  was  uncertain,  if  indeed  he  re- 
turned at  all.  David  went  next  to  the  office  of 
Mr.  Haddon,  treasurer  of  the  Mission  and  of 
the  Boys'  Farm  Committee,  and  one  of  the  Mis- 
sion's largest  givers.  Mr.  Haddon,  he  was  told, 
had  left  the  office  an  hour  before  for  St.  Chris- 
topher's. 

David  hurried  back  to  the  Mission,  wondering 
what  Mr.  Haddon's  errand  there  could  be,  and 
hoping  to  catch  him  before  he  left.  As  he  was 
starting  up  the  stairway  the  janitor  stopped 
him.  "Mr.  Haddon  was  asking  for  you,"  the 
janitor  said.  "And  Miss  Chambers,  too.  I 
think  she's  in  the  reception  room." 

David  turned  back,  walked  down  the  hall  and 
entered  the  dim  reception  room.  She  was  sitting 
in  a  Flemish  oak  settle  near  a  window,  her  hands 
clasped  upon  an  idle  book  in  her  lap,  gazing 
fixedly  into  vacancy.  Her  dress  of  mourning 
was  almost  lost  in  the  shadow,  and  her  face 
alone,  softly  lighted  from  between  the  barely 
parted  dark-green  hangings,  had  distinctness. 
He  paused  at  the  door  and  gazed  long  at  her. 
Then  he  crossed  the  bare  floor. 

She  rose,  gave  him  her  firm,  slender  hand,  and, 
allowing  him  half  the  settle,  resumed  her  seat. 
Now  that  he  could  look  directly  into  her  face,  he 
saw  there  repressed  anxiety. 

"I  came  down  this  morning  on  an  errand 
about  the  Flower  Guild,"  she  said.  "I'm  going 
back  to  the  country  this  afternoon.  I've  been 
waiting  to  see  you  because  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
something." 

She  paused.     David  was  conscious  that  she 


38  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

was  making  an  effort  to  keep  her  anxiety  out 
of  her  voice  and  manner. 

"It's  not  at  all  important,"  she  went  on. 
"Just  a  little  matter  about  Mr.  Morton.  Oh, 
it's  nothing  wrong,"  she  added  quickly,  noticing 
that  David  had  suddenly  paled.  "I'm  sure 
nothing  unpleasant  is  going  to  develop.  But  I 
wanted  you  to  know  it,  so  that  if  there  was  any 
little  difficulty,  you  wouldn't  be  taken  by  sur- 
prise." 

David's  pulses  stopped.  "Yes?"  he  said. 
"Yes?" 

She  had  become  very  white.  "It's  about  the 
money  of  the  Boys'  Farm  Committee.  Day  be- 
fore yesterday  morning  Mr.  Haddon  went  to 
the  Third  National  Bank  to  arrange  for  with- 
drawing the  funds  he  had  depositd  in  Mr.  Mor- 
ton's name.  He  found — Mr.  Morton  had  with- 
drawn it." 

"Yes?" 

"Please  remember,  I'm  sure  nothing's  wrong. 
Of  course  Mr.  Haddon  acted  immediately.  He 
called  a  meeting  of  the  committee;  they  decided 
to  make  a  quiet  investigation  at  once.  Father 
told  me  about  it.  So  far  they  haven't  found 
the  money,  but  of  course  they  will.  The  worst 
part  is,  the  newspapers  have  somehow  learned 
that  five  thousand  dollars  is  missing  from  the 
Mission.  The  sum  is  not  so  large,  but  for  it  to 
disappear  in  connection  with  a  place  like  this — 
you  can  see  what  a  great  scandal  the  papers  are 
scenting?  Several  reporters  were  here  just  a 
little  while  ago.  I  sent  them  upstairs  to  Mr. 
Haddon." 

He  stared  at  her  dizzily.     His  plan  was  come 


THE  BARGAIN  39 

to  naught.  Morton's  shame  was  about  to  be 
trumpeted  over  the  city.  The  people  of  St. 
Christopher's  were  about  to  topple  back  into  the 
abyss. 

"What  is  Mr.  Haddon  doing  upstairs?" 

"It  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  Mr.  Morton 
had  put  the  money  in  the  safe  in  his  study.  I'm 
certain  the  money's  there.  Mr.  Haddon's  up  in 
the  study  with  a  safe-opening  expert." 

For  a  moment  David  sat  muted  by  the  im- 
pending disaster.  Then  he  rose.  "Come — let's 
go  up!"  he  said. 

They  mounted  the  stairs  in  silence,  and  in  the 
corridor  leading  to  Morton's  apartment  passed 
half  a  dozen  reporters.  David  unlocked  the 
apartment  with  his  latch-key,  led  the  way  to 
Morton's  study,  and  pushed  open  its  door.  Be- 
fore the  safe  sat  a  heavily  spectacled  man  care- 
fully turning  its  dial-plate  and  knob.  On  one 
side  of  him  stood  Dr.  Thorn,  his  formal  fea- 
tures pale,  and  on  the  other  side  gray-haired  Mr. 
Haddon,  his  hard,  lean  face,  milled  with  finan- 
cial wrinkles  like  a  dollar's  edge,  as  expression- 
less as  though  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  Wall 
Street  crisis. 

Mr.  Haddon  recognised  the  presence  of 
David  and  Helen  with  a  slight  nod,  but  Dr. 
Thorn  stepped  to  David's  side. 

"You've  heard  about  it?"  he  asked  in  an  agi- 
tated voice. 

"Yes — Miss  Chambers  told  me." 

At  that  moment  the  safe  door  swung  open. 
"There  you  are,"  said  the  spectacled  man,  with 
a  complacent  little  grunt. 

Mr.  Haddon  dismissed  the  man  and  knelt  be- 


40  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

fore  the  safe.  Helen  and  Dr.  Thorn  leaned 
over  him,  and  David,  still  stunned  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  catastrophe,  looked  whitely  on 
from  behind  them.  A  minute,  and  Mr.  Had- 
don's  search  was  over. 

He  looked  about  at  the  others.  "It's  not 
here,"  he  said  quietly. 

A  noise  at  the  door  caused  all  to  turn  in  that 
direction.  There  stood  the  reporters.  They 
had  edged  into  the  apartment  as  the  safe-expert 
had  gone  out. 

"Will  you  gentlemen  please  wait  outside!" 
requested  Mr.  Haddon,  sharply. 

"We've  got  to  hurry  to  catch  the  afternoon 
editions,"  one  spoke  up.  "Can't  you  give  us 
the  main  facts  right  now?  You've  got  'em  all 
— I  just  heard  you  say  the  money  wasn't 
here." 

"I'll  see  you  in  a  few  minutes,"  answered  Mr. 
Haddon,  and  brusquely  pressed  them  before  him 
into  the  corridor. 

When  he  reentered  the  study  he  looked  at 
them  all  grimly.  "There's  absolutely  no  keep- 
ing this  from  the  papers,"  he  said. 

"But  there  must  still  be  another  place  the 
money  can  be!"  Helen  cried. 

"I've  investigated  every  other  place,"  returned 
Mr.  Haddon,  in  the  calm  voice  of  finality. 
"The  safe  was  the  last  possiblity." 

They  all  three  stared  at  each  other.  It  was 
Dr.  Thorn  that  spoke  the  thought  of  all.  "Then 
the  worst  we  feared — is  true?" 

Mr.  Haddon  nodded.     "It  must  be." 

David  could  not  speak,  nor  think — could  only 
lean  sickened  against  the  desk.  The  exposure 


THE  BARGAIN  41 

of  Morton — and  a  thousand  times  worse,  the 
ruin  of  St.  Christopher's — both  inevitable! 

"Won't  you  please  look  again!"  Helen  cried, 
with  desperate  hope.  "Perhaps  you  overlooked 
something." 

Mr.  Haddon  knelt  once  more,  and  slowly 
fluttered  the  pages  of  the  books  and  scrutinised 
each  scrap  of  paper.  Soon  he  paused,  and 
studied  a  slip  he  had  come  upon.  Then  he  rose, 
and  David  saw  at  the  head  of  the  slip,  "Cash 
Account  of  Boys'  Summer  Home."  It  was  the 
paper  he  had  prepared  to  hide  Morton's  embez- 
zlement. 

Mr.  Haddon's  steady  eyes  took  in  David  and 
Dr.  Thorn.  "Could  anybody  have  been  in  the 
safe  since  Mr.  Morton's  death?" 

"It's  hardly  possible,"  returned  Dr.  Thorn. 
"Mr.  Aldrich  has  been  in  the  study  almost  con- 
stantly." 

Mr.  Haddon's  eyes  fastened  on  David;  a 
quick  gleam  came  into  them.  David,  unnerved 
as  he  was,  could  not  keep  his  face  from  twitch- 
ing. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Mr.  Haddon 
asked  quietly: 

"Could  you  have  been  in  the  safe,  Mr.  Al- 
drich?" 

David  did  not  recognise  whither  the  question 
led.  "Why,  yes,"  he  said  mechanically. 

Mr.  Haddon  held  out  the  slip  of  paper.  "Ac- 
cording to  this  memorandum  in  Mr.  Morton's 
hand,  the  money  was  in  the  safe  the  day  before 
his  death."  His  eyes  screwed  into  David. 
"Perhaps  you  can  suggest  to  us  what  became 
of  the  money." 


42  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

David  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"The  money  —  was  there  —  when  Morton 
died!"  said  Dr.  Thorn  amazedly.  He  looked 
from  one  man  to  the  other.  Then  understand- 
ing came  into  his  face,  and  a  great  relief.  "You 
mean — Mr.  Aldrich — took  it?" 

"I  took  itl"  David  repeated  stupidly. 

He  turned  slowly  to  Helen.  Her  white  face, 
with  its  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips,  and  the  sud- 
den look  of  fear  she  held  upon  him,  cleared  his 
head,  made  him  see  where  he  was. 

"I  did  not  take  the  money!"  he  cried. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  returned  Mr.  Haddon 
grimly.  "But  who  did?" 

"If  I'd  taken  it,  wouldn't  I  have  disappeared? 
Would  I  have  heen  such  a  fool  as  to  have  stayed 
here  to  be  caught?" 

"If  the  thief  had  run  away,  that  would  have 
fastened  the  guilt  on  him  at  once.  To  remain 
here,  hoping  to  throw  suspicion  on  Mr.  Morton 
— this  was  the  cleverest  course." 

"I  did  not  take  the  money!"  David  cried  des- 
perately. "It's  a  He!" 

Helen  moved  to  David's  side,  and  gazed 
straight  into  Mr.  Haddon's  accusing  face.  In- 
dignation was  replacing  her  astoundment;  her 
cheeks  were  tingeing  with  red. 

"What,  would  you  condemn  a  man  upon  mere 
guesswork!"  she  cried.  "Merely  because  the 
money  is  not  there,  is  that  proof  that  Mr.  Al- 
,drich  took  it?  Do  you  call  this  justice,  Mr. 
Haddon?" 

Mr.  Haddon's  look  did  not  alter,  and  he  did 
not  reply.  The  opinion  of  womankind  he  had 
ever  considered  negligible. 


THE  BARGAIN  43 

Helen  turned  to  David  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  "I  believe  you." 

He  thanked  her  with  a  look. 

"It  must  have  been  Mr.  Morton,"  she  said. 

Her  words  first  thrilled  him.  Then  suddenly 
they  rang  out  as  a  knell.  If  he  threw  off  the 
guilt,  it  must  fall  on  Morton;  if  Morton  were 
publicly  guilty,  then  the  hundreds  of  the  Mis- 
sion— 

Mr.  Haddon's  hard  voice  broke  in,  change- 
less belief  in  its  tone:  "Mr.  Aldrich  took  it." 

David  looked  at  Mr.  Haddon,  looked  whitely 
at  Helen.  And  then  the  great  Thought  was 
conceived,  struggled  dizzily,  painfully,  into 
birth.  He  stood  shivering,  awed,  before 
it.  ... 

He  slowly  turned  and  walked  to  a  window  and 
gazed  down  into  the  street,  filled  with  children 
hurrying  home  from  school.  The  Thought 
spoke  to  him  in  vivid  flashes.  He  had  no  rela- 
tives, almost  no  friends.  He  loved  Helen 
Chambers;  but  he  was  nobody  and  a  beggar. 
He  had  not  done  anything — perhaps  could  never 
do  anything — and  even  if  he  did,  his  work  would 
probably  be  of  little  worth.  He  had  wanted  his 
life  to  be  of  service;  had  wanted  to  sell  it,  as 
it  were,  for  the  largest  good  he  could  perform. 
Well,  here  were  the  people  of  St.  Christopher's 
toppling  over  the  edge  of  destruction.  Here 
was  his  Great  Bargain — the  chance  to  sell  his 
life  for  the  highest  price. 

As  to  what  he  had  done  with  the  five  thousand, 
which  of  course  he'd  be  asked — well,  an  evening 
of  gambling  would  be  a  sufficient  explanation. 

He  turned  about. 


44  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Haddon. 
David  avoided  Helen's  look.     He  felt  himself 
borne  upward  to  the  apex  of  life. 
"Yes    ...     I  took  it,"  he  said. 


BOOK  II 

THE  CLOSED  ROAD 

CHAPTER  I 

DAVID    RE-ENTERS    THE   WORLD 

THE  history  of  the  next  four  years  of 
David's  life  is  contained  in  the  daily  pro- 
gramme of  Croton  Prison.  At  six  o'clock  the 
rising  gong  sounded;  David  rolled  out  of  his 
iron  cot,  washed  himself  at  the  faucet  in  his  cell, 
and  got  into  his  striped  trousers  and  striped 
jacket.  At  six-thirty  he  lock-stepped,  with  a 
long  line  of  fellows,  to  a  breakfast  of  hash,  bread 
and  coffee.  At  seven  he  marched  to  shoe  fac- 
tory or  foundry,  where  he  laboured  till  twelve, 
when  the  programme  called  him  to  dinner.  At 
one  he  marched  back  to  work ;  at  half -past  five  he 
marched  to  his  cell,  where  his  supper  of  bread 
and  coffee  was  thrust  in  to  him  through  a 
wicket.  He  read  or  paced  up  and  down  till 
nine,  when  the  going  out  of  his  light  sent  him 
into  his  iron  cot.  Multiply  this  by  fifteen  hun- 
dred and  the  product  is  David's  prison  life. 

It  would  be  untruth  to  say  that  a  sense  of  the 
good  he  was  doing  sustained  a  passionate  hap- 
piness in  David  through  all  these  years.  Mo- 

45 


46  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ments  of  exaltation  were  rare ;  they  were  the  sun- 
blooming  peaks  in  an  expanse  of  life  that  was 
otherwise  low  and  gloom-hung.  David  had  al- 
ways understood  that  prisons  in  their  object 
were  not  only  punitive — they  were  reformative. 
But  all  his  intelligence  could  not  see  any  strong 
influence  that  tended  to  rouse  and  strengthen  the 
inmates'  better  part.  Occasional  and  perfunctory 
words  from  chaplains  could  not  do  it.  Mo- 
notonous work,  to  which  they  were  lock-stepped, 
from  which  they  were  lock-stepped,  and  which 
was  directed  and  performed  in  the  lock-step's 
deadening  spirit,  this  could  not  do  it.  Constant 
silence,  while  eating,  marching,  working,  could 
not  do  it.  The  removal  for  a  week  of  a  man's 
light  because  he  had  spoken  to  a  neighbour,  this 
could  not  do  it.  Nor  could  a  day's  or  two  days' 
confinement,  on  the  charge  of  "shamming"  when 
too  ill  to  work,  in  an  utterly  black  dungeon  on 
a  bit  of  bread  and  a  few  swallows  of  water. 

Rather  this  routine,  these  rules,  enforced  un- 
thinkingly, without  sympathy,  had  an  opposite 
energy.  David  felt  himself  being  made  unin- 
telligent— being  made  hard,  bitter,  vindictive 
— felt  himself  being  dehumanised.  One  day  as 
he  sat  at  dinner  with  a  couple  of  hundred 
mates,  silent,  signalling  for  food  with  upraised 
fingers,  a  man  and  woman  who  were  being  es- 
corted about  the  prison  by  the  warden,  came 
into  the  room.  The  woman  studied  for  several 
minutes  these  first  prisoners  she  had  ever  seen 
— then  the  dumb  rows  heard  her  exclaim:  "Why 
look, — they're  human!"  To  David  the  discov- 
ery was  hardly  less  astonishing.  He  had  been 
forgetting  the  fact. 


DAVID  ENTERS  THE  WORLD     47 

Yes,  moments  of  exaltation  were  rare.  More 
frequent  were  the  dark  times  when  the  callous- 
ness and  stupidity  of  some  of  the  regulations 
enraged  him,  when  the  weight  of  all  the  walls 
seemed  to  lie  upon  his  chest — when  he  frantically 
felt  he  must  have  light  and  air,  or  die; — and  he 
cursed  his  own  foolishness,  and  would  have 
traded  the  truth  to  the  people  of  St.  Christo- 
pher's for  his  freedom.  Prometheus  must  often 
have  repented  his  gift  of  fire.  But  the  momen- 
tum of  David's  resolve  carried  him  through  these 
black  stretches;  and  during  his  normal  prison 
mood,  which  was  the  restless  gloom  of  all  caged 
animals,  his  mind  was  in  control  and  held  him 
to  his  bargain. 

But  always  there  was  with  him  a  great  fear. 
Was  Morton's  memory  retaining  its  potency 
over  the  people  of  St.  Christopher's?  Were 
they  striving  to  hold  to  their  old  ideals,  or  were 
they  gradually  loosening  their  grip  and  slipping 
back  into  the  old  easy  ways  of  improvidence  and 
dissipation?  Perhaps,  even  now,  they  were  en- 
tirely back,  and  his  four  years  had  paid  for  noth- 
ing. The  long  day  carrying  the  liquid  iron  to 
the  moulds  would  have  been  easier,  the  long 
night  in  the  black  cell  would  have  been  calmer, 
had  he  had  assurance  that  his  sacrifice  was  ful- 
filling its  aim.  But  never  a  word  came  from 
St.  Christopher's  through  those  heavy  walls. 

And  always  he  thought  of  Helen  Chambers. 
He  could  never  forget  the  stare  of  her  white 
face  when  he  had  acknowledged  his  guilt,  how 
she  had  first  tried  to  speak,  then  turned  slowly 
and  walked  away.  The  four  walls  of  his  mind 
were  hung  with  that  picture ;  wherever  he  turned, 


48  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

he  saw  it.  He  had  wanted  to  spring  after  her 
and  whisper  his  innocence,  but  there  had  flashed 
up  a  realisation  that  his  plan  was  feasible  only 
with  a  perfect  secrecy,  and  to  admit  one  person 
to  his  confidence  might  be  to  admit  the  world. 
Besides,  she  might  not  believe  him.  So,  silent,  he 
had  let  her  walk  from  the  room  with  his  guilt. 

He  often  wondered  if  she  ever  thought  of  him. 
If  she  did,  it  was  doubtless  only  to  despise  him. 
More  likely,  he  had  passed  from  her  mind. 
Perhaps  she  was  married.  That  thought  wrung 
him.  He  tried  to  still  the  heavy  pain  by  look- 
ing at  the  impassable  gulf  that  lay  between 
them,  and  by  telling  himself  it  was  natural 
and  fitting  that  she  should  have  married.  He 
wondered  what  her  husband  was  like,  and  if  she 
were  happy.  But  the  walls  were  mute. 

Long  before  his  release  he  had  decided  he 
should  settle  in  New  York.  Life  would  be 
easiest,  he  knew,  if  he  were  to  lose  himself  in 
a  new  part  of  the  world.  But  St.  Christopher's, 
where  four  prison  years  and  the  balance  of  his 
dishonoured  life  were  invested,  was  in  New 
York ;  Helen  Chambers  was  in  New  York.  The 
rest  of  the  world  had  no  like  attractions;  it 
could  hide  him — that  was  all.  But  save  at  first 
while  he  was  gaining  a  foothold — and  could  he 
not  then  lose  himself  among  New  York's  mil- 
lions?— he  did  not  desire  to  hide  himself. 

He  did  not  care  to  hide  himself  because  the 
prison  had  given  him  a  message,  and  this  mes- 
sage he  intended  speaking  publicly.  He  had 
pondered  long  over  society's  treatment  of  the 
man  who  breaks  its  law.  That  treatment 
seemed  to  him  absurd,  illogical.  It  would  have 


DAVID  ENTERS  THE  WORLD      49 

been  laughably  grotesque  in  its  deforming  in- 
competence had  it  not  been  directed  at  human 
beings.  It  was  a  treatment  bounded  on  one 
side  by  negligence,  on  the  other  by  severity. 
It  maimed  souls,  killed  souls;  it  was  criminal. 
David's  sense  of  justice  and  humanity  demanded 
that  he  should  protest  against  this  great  criminal 
— our  prison  system.  He  knew  it  as  prison  re- 
formers did  not —  from  the  inside.  He  could 
speak  from  his  heart.  And  as  soon  as  he  had 
gained  a  foothold,  he  would  begin. 

At  length  came  the  day  of  his  liberation,  and 
he  found  himself  back  in  New  York,  twenty 
dollars,  his  prison  savings,  in  his  pocket,  the  ex- 
haustion of  prison  life  in  his  flesh,  and  in  his 
heart  a  determination  to  conquer  the  world. 
He  knew  but  one  part  of  New  York — the  neigh- 
bourhood of  St.  Christopher's  Mission — and  that 
part  drew  him  because  of  his  interest  in  it,  and 
also  because  he  must  live  cheaply  and  there  life 
was  on  a  cheap  scale.  He  hesitated  to  settle  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood;  but  he  could  set- 
tle just  without  its  edge,  where  he  could  look  on, 
and  perhaps  pass  unnoticed.  He  at  length 
found  a  room  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  dingy  tene- 
ment, seven  or  eight  blocks  from  the  Mission. 
The  room  had  a  chair,  a  bed,  a  promise  of  weekly 
change  of  sheets,  and  a  back-yard  view  composed 
of  clothes-lines,  bannered  with  the  block's  un- 
derwear, and  the  rear  of  a  solid  row  of  dreary 
tenements.  Five  years  before  the  room  would 
have  been  unbearable;  now  it  was  luxury,  for  it 
was  Freedom. 

After  paying  the  first  month's  rent  of  five 
dollars  and  buying  a  few  dishes,  a  little  gas 


50  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

stove  and  a  small  supply  of  groceries,  he  had 
nine  dollars  left  with  which  to  face  the  world 
and  make  it  give  him  place.  If  he  spent  twenty 
cents  a  day  for  food,  and  spent  not  a  cent  for 
other  purposes,  he  could  eat  for  six  weeks.  But 
before  then  rent  would  again  be  due.  Four 
weeks  he  could  stand  out,  no  longer;  by  then  he 
must  have  won  a  foothold. 

Well,  he  would  do  it. 

By  the  time  he  had  made  a  cupboard  out  of 
the  soap-box  the  grocer  had  given  him  and  had 
set  his  room  in  order,  dusk  was  falling  into  the 
gulch-like  backyard  and  the  opposite  wall  was 
springing  into  light  at  a  hundred  windows.  He 
ate  a  dinner  from  his  slender  store,  using  his  bed 
as  a  chair  and  his  chair  as  a  table,  and  after  its 
signs  were  cleared  away  he  sat  down  and  gazed 
across  the  court  into  the  privacy  of  five  strata 
of  homes.  He  saw,  framed  by  the  windows, 
collarless  men  and  bare-armed  women  sitting 
with  their  children  at  table;  the  odours  of  a 
hundred  different  dinners,  entangled  into  one 
odour,  filled  his  nostrils;  family  talk,  and  the 
rumble  and  clatter  of  the  always-crowded 
streets,  came  to  his  ears  as  a  composite  murmur- 
ing that  was  an  inarticulate  summary  of  life. 

But  none  of  these  impressions  reached  his 
mind;  that  had  slipped  away  to  Helen  Cham- 
bers. The  question  that  had  asked  itself  ten 
thousand  times  repeated  itself  again:  was  she 
married?  He  tried  to  tell  himself  quietly  that 
it  was  none  of  his  affair,  could  make  no  differ- 
ence to  him — but  the  suspense  of  four  years  was 
not  to  be  strangled  by  self-restraint.  The  de- 
sire to  know  the  truth,  to  see  her  if  he  could, 


DAVID  ENTERS  THE  WORLD      61 

mounted  to  an  impulse  there  was  no  withstand- 
ing. 

And  another  oft-asked  question  also  came  to 
him.  Was  the  Mission  still  a  power  for  good? 
And  this  also  roused  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
know  the  truth.  He  left  his  room  and  set  out 
for  St.  Christopher's,  wondering  if  he  would  be 
recognised.  But,  though  often  Morton's  guest, 
he  had  mixed  but  little  in  the  affairs  of  the  Mis- 
sion, and  not  many  from  the  hard-working 
neighbourhood  had  been  able  to  attend  his  brief 
trial;  so  he  was  known  by  sight  to  few,  and  no 
one  now  gave  him  a  second  look. 

As  he  came  into  the  old  streets,  with  here  and 
there  a  little  shop  that  had  been  owned  by  one 
of  Morton's  followers,  and  here  and  there  among 
the  passers-by  a  face  that  was  vaguely  familiar, 
his  suspense  grew  and  grew — till,  when  St. 
Christopher's  loomed  before  him,  it  seemed  his 
suspense  would  almost  choke  him.  He  paused 
across  the  street  in  the  shadow  of  a  tenement  en- 
trance, and  stared  over  at  the  club-house  and  at 
the  chapel  with  its  spire  rising  into  the  rain- 
presaging  night.  Light  streamed  from  the 
open  door  of  the  chapel;  on  the  club-house  win- 
dow-sills were  the  indistinct  shapes  of  flower- 
boxes;  boys  and  girls,  young  men  and  women, 
parents,  were  entering  the  club-house.  Every- 
thing seemed  just  the  same.  But  were  the  peo- 
ple the  same?  Had  his  four  years  been  squan- 
dered— or  spent  to  glorious  purpose? 

He  slipped  across  the  street  and  looked  cau- 
tiously into  the  chapel.  There  were  the  three 
rows  of  pews,  the  plain  pulpit  bearing  an  open 
Bible,  behind  which  Morton  used  to  preach,  the 


52  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

organ  at  which  a  stooped  girl,  a  shirt-waist 
maker,  used  to  play  the  hymns  and  lead  the  con- 
gregation's singing — all  just  as  in  other  days. 

The  chapel  was  empty,  save  the  corner  of  a 
rear  pew  in  which  sat  a  troubled,  poorly-dressed 
woman,  and  a  gray-haired  man  whose  clerical 
coat  made  David  guess  him  to  be  Morton's  suc- 
cessor. The  voice  of  his  advice  was  gentle  and 
persuasive,  and  when  the  woman's  rising  to  go 
revealed  his  shaven  face,  David  saw  that  it  had 
strength  and  kindness,  spirit  and  humility- 
saw  that  the  man's  vigour  remained  despite  his 
obvious  sixty  years. 

David  entered  the  chapel  and  approached  the 
director  of  the  Mission.  The  old  man  held  out 
his  hand.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "Is 
there  anything  in  which  I  can  serve  you?" 

David  strove  for  a  casual  manner,  but  prison 
had  made  him  too  worn,  too  nervous,  to  act  a 
part  requiring  so  much  control.  "I  was  just- 
going  by,"  he  stammered,  taking  the  hand.  "I 
used  to  know  the  Mission — years  ago — when 
Mr.  Morton  was  here.  So  I  came  in." 

"Ah,  then  you  knew  Mr.  Morton!"  said  the 
director  warmly. 

"A— a  little." 

"Even  to  know  him  a  little  was  a  great  privi- 
lege," he  said  with  conviction,  admiration.  "He 
was  a  wonderful  man!" 

David  braced  himself  for  one  of  the  two  great 
questions  of  his  last  four  years.  "Does  the 
neighbourhood  still  remember  him?" 

"Just  as  though  he  were  still  here,"  the  direc- 
tor answered,  with  the  enthusiasm  an  un jealous 
older  brother  may  feel  for  the  family  genius. 


DAVID  ENTERS  THE  WORLD      53 

"He  has  left  an  influence  that  amounts  to  a  liv- 
ing, inspiring  presence.  That  influence,  more 
than  anything  I  have  done,  has  kept  the  people 
just  as  earnest  for  truer  manhood  and  woman- 
hood as  when  he  left  them.  I  feel  that  I  am 
only  the  assistant.  He  is  still  the  real  head." 

David  got  away  as  quickly  as  he  could,  a 
mighty,  quivering  warmth  within  him.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  he  gave  a  parting  glance 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  chapel.  He  stopped 
short,  and  stared.  While  they  had  talked,  the 
director  of  the  Mission  had  turned  on  additional 
lights,  among  which  had  been  an  arc-light  be- 
fore the  great  stained-  glass  window  at  the  street 
end  of  the  chapel.  The  window  was  now  a 
splendid  glow  of  red  and  blue  and  purple,  and 
printed  upon  its  colours  was  this  legend: 


David  stared  at  the  window,  weak,  dizzy. 
There  was  a  momentary  pang  of  bitterness  that 
Morton  should  be  so  honoured,  and  he  be  what 
he  was.  Then  the  glow  that  had  possessed  him 
in  the  chapel  flowed  back  upon  him  in  even 


54  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

greater  warmth.  The  window  seemed  to  David, 
in  his  then  mood,  to  be  the  perpetuation  in  glow- 
ing colour  of  Morton's  influence.  It  seemed  to 
throw  forth  into  the  street,  upon  the  chance 
passer-by,  the  inspiration  of  Morton's  life. 

Yes, — his  four  years  had  counted! 

Half  an  hour  later  he  took  his  stand  against 
the  shadowed  stoop  of  an  empty  mansion  in 
Madison  Avenue,  and  gazed  across  at  a  great 
square  three-story  stone  house,  with  a  bulging 
conservatory  running  along  its  left  side — the 
only  residence  in  the  block  that  had  re-opened 
for  the  autumn.  All  thought  of  Morton  and  the 
Mission  was  gone  from  him.  His  mind  was 
filled  only  with  the  other  great  fear  of  his  last 
four  years.  If  she  came  out  of  the  door  he 
watched,  if  he  glimpsed  her  beneath  a  window 
shade,  then  probably  she  still  belonged  in  her 
father's  house — was  still  unmarried. 

A  cold  drizzle  had  begun  to  fall.  He  drew 
his  head  down  into  his  upturned  collar,  and 
though  his  weakened  body  shivered,  he  noticed 
neither  the  rain  nor  the  protest  of  his  flesh.  His 
whole  being  was  directed  at  the  house  across  the 
way.  Slow  minute  followed  slow  minute.  The 
door  did  not  open,  and  he  saw  no  one  inside  the 
windows.  His  heart  beat  as  though  it  would 
shake  his  body  apart.  The  sum  of  four  years 
suspense  so  weakened  him  that  he  could  hardly 
stand.  Yet  he  stood  and  waited,  waited ;  and  he 
realised  more  keenly  than  ever  how  dear  she  was 
to  him — though  to  possess  her  was  beyond  his 
wildest  dreams,  and  perhaps  he  might  not  even 
speak  to  her  again. 

At  length  a  nearby  steeple  called  the  hour  of 


DAVID  ENTERS  THE  WORLD       55 

ten.  Presently  a  carriage  began  to  turn  in  to- 
wards the  opposite  side- walk.  David,  all 
a-tremble,  his  great  suspense  now  at  its  climax, 
stepped  forth  from  his  shadow.  The  carriage 
stopped  before  the  Chambers  home.  He  hur- 
ried across  the  street,  and  a  dozen  paces  away 
from  the  carriage  he  stooped  and  made  pretense 
of  tying  his  shoe-lace;  but  all  the  while  his  eyes 
were  on  the  carriage  door,  which  the  footman 
had  thrown  open.  First  a  man  stepped  forth, 
back  to  David,  and  raised  an  umbrella.  Who? 
The  next  instant  David  caught  the  profile.  It 
was  Mr.  Chambers.  After  him  came  an  ample, 
middle-aged  woman,  brilliantly  attired — Mrs. 
Bosworth,  Mr.  Chambers's  widowed  sister,  who 
had  been  living  with  him  since  his  wife's  death. 

A  moment  later  Mr.  Chambers  was  helping  a 
second  woman  from  the  carriage.  The  um- 
brella cut  her  face  from  David's  gaze,  but  there 
was  no  mistaking  her.  So  she  still  lived  in  the 
house  of  her  father ! 

She  paused  an  instant  to  speak  to  the  foot- 
man. For  a  second  a  new  fear  lived  in  David: 
might  she  not  come  with  her  father  to  her 
father's  house,  and  still  be  married?  But  at  the 
second's  end  the  fear  was  destroyed  by  the  con- 
ventional three-word  response  of  the  footman. 
David  watched  her  go  up  the  steps,  her  face  hid- 
den by  the  umbrella,  watched  her  enter  and  the 
door  close  behind  her.  Then,  collapsed  by  the 
vast  relief  which  followed  upon  his  vast  sus- 
pense, he  sank  down  upon  the  stoop,  and  the 
three  words  of  the  footman  maintained  a  thrill- 
ing iteration  in  his  ears. 

The  three  words  were:  "Thank  you,  Miss" 


CHAPTER  II 


next  morning  David  was  awakened  by 
A  the  ringing  of  a  gong.  He  tumbled  out 
of  bed  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  march  to 
breakfast  at  half  past  six;  and  he  had  begun  to 
dress  before  it  dawned  upon  him  that  he  was  a 
free  man,  and  that  the  ringing  was  a  prank  a 
four-year  habit  had  played  upon  him — a  prank 
that,  by  the  way,  was  to  be  repeated  every  morn- 
ing for  many  a  week  to  come. 

He  slipped  back  into  bed,  and  lay  there  con- 
sidering what  he  should  first  do.  He  had  to  find 
work  quickly,  but  he  felt  his  four  walled  years 
had  earned  him  a  holiday — one  day  in  which  to 
re-acquaint  himself  with  freedom.  So,  after  he 
had  eaten,  he  felt  his  way  down  the  dark,  heavy- 
aired  stairways,  stepped  through  the  doorway, 
and  then  paused  in  wonderment. 

All  was  as  fresh,  as  marvellous,  as  yesterday. 
The  narrow  street  was  a  bustle  of  freedom — 
pounding  carts,  school-going  boys  and  girls, 
playing  children,  marketing  wives — no  stripes, 
no  lock-steps,  no  guards.  And  the  yellow  sun! 
He  held  his  bleached  face  up  to  it,  as  though  he 
would  press  against  its  sympathetic  warmth; 
and  he  sucked  deeply  of  the  September  air. 
And  the  colours! — the  reds  and  whites  and 
browns  of  the  children,  the  occasional  green  of 

56 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR  57 

a  plant  on  a  window  sill,  the  clear  blue  of  the 
strip  of  sky  at  the  street's  top.  He  had  almost 
forgotten  there  were  colours  other  than  stripes, 
the  gray  of  stone  walls,  the  black  of  steel  bars. 

And  how  calmly  the  streetful  of  people  took 
these  marvels! 

At  first  he  expected  the  people  he  threaded 
among  to  look  into  his  face,  see  his  prison  record 
there,  draw  away  from  him,  perhaps  taunt  him 
with  "thief."  But  no  one  even  noticed  him,  and 
gradually  this  fear  began  to  fade  from  him. 
As  he  was  crossing  the  Bowery,  a  car  clanged 
at  his  back.  He  frantically  leaped,  with  a  cry, 
to  the  sidewalk,  and  leaned  against  a  column  of 
the  elevated  railroad — panting,  exhausted,  heart 
pounding.  He  had  not  before  known  how 
weak,  nerveless,  prison  had  made  him. 

He  found,  as  he  continued  his  way,  that  the 
sidewalk  undulated  like  a  ship's  deck  beneath  his 
giddy  legs;  he  found  himself  afraid  of  traffic- 
crowded  corners  that  women  and  children  un- 
hesitatingly crossed;  he  found  himself  stopping 
and  staring  with  intensest  interest  at  the  com- 
mon-places of  street  life — at  hurrying  men,  at 
darting  newsboys,  at  rushing  street  cars  and 
clattering  trucks,  at  whatever  moved  where  it 
willed.  Old-timers  had  told  him  of  the  dazed- 
ness,  the  fear,  the  interest,  of  the  first  free  days, 
but  he  was  unprepared  for  the  palpitant  acute- 
ness  of  his  every  sensation. 

After  a  time,  in  Broadway,  he  chanced  to  look 
into  a  mirror-backed  show-window  where  lumi- 
nous satins  were  displayed.  Between  two  smirk- 
ing waxen  women  in  sheeny  drapery  he  saw  that 
which  brought  him  to  a  pause  and  set  him  gaz- 


58  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ing.  It  was  his  full-length  self,  which  he  had 
not  seen  these  four  years.  The  figure  was 
gaunt,  a  mere  framework  for  his  shoddy,  prison- 
made  suit ;  the  skin  of  his  face  snugly  fitted  itself 
to  the  bones;  his  eyes  were  sunken,  large;  his 
hair,  which  he  uncovered,  had  here  and  there  a 
line  of  gray.  He  was  startled.  But  he  had 
courage  for  the  future;  and  after  a  few  mo- 
ments he  said  to  himself  aloud,  a  habit  prison 
had  given  him:  "A  few  weeks,  and  you  won't 
know  yourself." 

As  he  walked  on,  the  consciousness  of  free- 
dom swelled  within  him.  If  he  desired,  he  could 
speak  to  the  man  ahead  of  him,  could  laugh, 
could  stand  still,  could  walk  where  he  wished, 
and  no  guard  to  report  on  him  and  no  warden  to 
subtract  from  his  "good  time."  More  than 
once,  under  cover  of  the  rattle  of  an  elevated 
train,  he  shouted  at  his  voice's  top  in  pure  ex- 
travagance of  feeling;  and  once  in  Fifth  Ave- 
nue, forgetting  himself,  he  flung  his  arms  wide 
and  laughed  joyously — to  be  suddenly  restored 
to  convention  by  the  hurried  approach  of  a  po- 
liceman. 

All  day  he  watched  this  strange  new  life — 
much  of  the  time  sitting  in  parks,  for  the  unac- 
customed walking  wearied  him.  When  he  came 
to  his  tenement's  door — flanked  on  one  side  by  a 
saloon,  and  on  the  other  side  by  a  little  grocery 
store  before  which  sat  a  basket  of  shrunken  po- 
tatoes and  a  few  withered  cabbages  and  beans, 
and  in  which  supplies  could  be  bought  by  the 
pennyworth — a  hand  fell  upon  his  arm  and  a 
voice  called  out  with  wheezy  cordiality:  "Good 
evenin',  friend." 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR   59 

David  glanced  about.  Beside  him  was  a  loose 
bundle  of  old  humanity,  wrapped  up  in  and  held 
together  by  a  very  seedy  coat  and  stained, 
baggy  trousers  frayed  at  the  bottom.  The  face 
was  covered  with  gray  bristle  and  gullied  with 
wrinkles.  Over  one  eye  hung  a  greasy  green 
flap ;  the  other  eye  was  watery  and  red. 

"Good  evening,"  returned  David. 

"Excuse  me  for  stoppin'  you,"  said  the  old 
man  with  an  ingratiating  smile  that  unlipped  half 
a  dozen  brown  teeth.  "But  we're  neighbours, 
and  I  thought  we  ought  to  get  acquainted.  Me 
an'  my  girl  lives  just  across  the  hall  from  you. 
Morgan's  my  name — Old  Jimmie  Morgan." 

"Aldrich  is  mine.  I  suppose  I'll  see  you  again. 
Good  evening."  And  David,  eager  to  get  away 
from  the  nodding  old  man,  started  through  the 
door. 

His  neighbour  stepped  quickly  before  him, 
and  put  a  stubby  hand  against  his  chest.  "Wait 
a  minute,  Mr.  Aldrich.  I'm  in  a  little  trouble. 
I've  got  to  get  some  groceries,  and  my  daughter 
— she  carries  our  money — she  ain't  in.  I  won- 
der if  you  couldn't  loan  me  fifty  cents  till 
mornin'?" 

David  knew  that  fifty  cents  loaned  to  him  was 
fifty  cents  lost.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Mebbe  I  could  get  along  on  twenty-five 
then.  Say  a  quarter." 

"I  really  can't  spare  it,"  said  David,  and 
tried  to  press  by. 

"Well,  then  make  it  a  dime,"  wheedled  the  old 
man,  stopping  him  again.  "You'll  never  miss 
a  dime,  friend.  Come,  what's  a  dime  to  a  young 
man  like  you.  And  it'll  get  me  a  bowl  of  soup 


60  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

and  a  cup  of  coffee.     That'll  help  an  old  man 
like  me  a  lot,   for   Katie   won't  be  home   till 


morninV 


Merely  to  free  himself  David  drew  out  one  of 
his  precious  dimes. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you!"  The  dirty,  wrin- 
kled hand  closed  tightly  upon  the  coin. 
"You've  saved  an  old  man  from  goin'  hungry 
to  bed." 

David  again  turned  to  enter.  He  almost  ran 
against  a  slight,  neatly-dressed  girl,  apparently 
about  twenty,  who  was  just  coming  out  of  the 
doorway.  Her  black  eyes  were  gleaming,  and 
there  were  red  spots  in  her  cheeks.  At  sight  of 
her  the  old  man  started  to  hurry  away. 

"Jim  Morgan!  You  come  here!"  she  com- 
manded in  a  ringing  voice. 

The  old  man  stopped,  and  came  slowly  toward 
her  with  a  hang-dog  look. 

"You've  been  borrowing  money  of  that  man !" 
she  declared. 

"No  I  ain't.  We  were  talkin' — talkin' 
politics.  Honest,  Katie.  We  were  just  talkin' 
politics." 

"You  were  begging  money!"  She  turned  her 
sharp  eyes  upon  David.  "Wasn't  he?" 

The  old  man  winked  frantically  for  help  with 
his  red  eye,  and  started  to  slip  the  dime  into  his 
pocket.  The  girl,  without  waiting  for  David's 
answer,  wheeled  about  so  quickly  that  she  caught 
both  the  signal  for  help  and  the  move  of  the  hand 
pocketward.  She  pointed  at  the  hand.  "Stop 
that!  Now  open  it  up!" 

"Nothin'  in  it,  Katie,"  whined  her  father. 

"Open  that  hand!" 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR   61 

It  slowly  opened,  and  in  the  centre  of  the 
grimy  palm  lay  the  dime. 

"Give  it  back  to  him,"  the  girl  ordered. 

Old  Jimmie  handed  David  the  coin. 

The  girl's  eyes  blazed.  Her  wrath  burst 
forth.  "Now,  sir,  you  will  borrow  money,  will 
you!"  her  sharp  voice  rang  out.  "You  will  lie 
to  me  about  it,  will  you !" 

David  hurried  inside  and  heard  no  more.  He 
made  a  pot  of  coffee  and  warmed  half  a  can  of 
baked  beans  over  his  little  gas  stove.  Of  this 
crude  meal  his  stomach  would  accept  little.  His 
condition  should  have  had  the  delicate  and  nour- 
ishing food  that  is  served  an  invalid.  His  appe- 
tite longingly  remembered  meals  of  other  days: 
the  fruit,  the  eggs  on  crisp  toast,  the  golden- 
brown  coffee,  at  breakfast;  the  soup,  the  roast, 
the  vegetables,  the  dessert,  at  dinner — linen, 
china,  service,  food,  all  dainty.  He  turned  from 
the  meals  his  imagination  saw  to  the  meal  upon 
his  chair-table.  He  smiled  whimsically.  "Sir," 
he  said  reprovingly  to  his  appetite,  "you're  too 
ambitious." 

He  had  placed  his  can  of  condensed  milk  and 
bit  of  butter  out  on  the  fire-escape,  which  he, 
adopting  the  East  Side's  custom,  used  as  an  ice- 
chest,  and  had  put  his  washed  dishes  into  the 
soap-box  cupboard,  when  he  was  startled  by  a 
knock.  Wondering  who  could  be  calling  on 
him,  he  threw  open  the  door. 

Kate  Morgan  stood  before  him.  "I  want  to 
see  you  a  minute.  May  I  come  in?" 

"Certainly." 

David  bowed  and  motioned  her  in.  Her  quick 
eyes  noted  the  bow  and  the  gesture.  He  drew 


62  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

his  one  chair  into  the  open  space  beside  the  bed. 

"Won't  you  please  be  seated?" 

She  sat  down,  rested  one  arm  on  the  corner  of 
his  battered  wash-stand  and  crossed  her  knees. 

David  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
He  had  a  better  view  of  her  than  when  he  had 
seen  her  in  the  doorway,  and  he  could  hardly  be- 
lieve she  was  the  daughter  of  the  old  man  who 
had  stopped  him.  She  wore  a  yellow  dress  of 
some  cheap  goods,  with  bands  of  bright  red  about 
the  bottom  of  the  skirt,  bands  of  red  about 
the  short  loose  sleeves  that  left  the  arms  bare 
from  the  elbows,  a  red  girdle,  and  about  the 
shoulders  a  red  fulness.  The  dress  was  almost 
barbaric  in  its  colouring,  yet  it  suited  her  dark 
face,  with  its  brilliant  black  eyes. 

There  was  neither  embarrassment  nor  over- 
boldness  in  the  face;  rather  the  composure  of 
the  woman  who  is  acting  naturally.  There  was 
a  touch  of  hardness  about  the  mouth  and  eyes, 
and  a  touch  of  cynicism;  in  ten  years,  David 
guessed,  those  qualities  would  have  sculptured 
themselves  deep  into  her  features.  But  it  was 
an  alert,  clear,  almost  pretty  face — would  have 
been  decidedly  pretty,  in  a  sharp  way,  had  the 
hair  not  been  combed  into  a  tower  of  a  pom- 
padour that  exaggerated  her  face's  thinness. 

She  did  not  lose  an  instant  in  speaking  her 
errand.  "I  want  you  to  promise  not  to  lend  my 
father  a  cent,"  she  began  in  a  concise  voice.  "I 
have  to  ask  that  of  every  new  person  that  moves 
in  the  house.  He's  an  old  soak.  I  don't  dare 
give  him  a  cent.  But  he  borrows  whenever  he 
can,  and  if  he  gets  enough  it's  delirium  tre- 
mens." 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR   63 

"He  told  me  he  wanted  a  bowl  of  soup  and  a 
cup  of  coffee,"  David  said  in  excuse  of  himself. 

"Soup  and  coffee !  Huh  1  Whiskey.  That's 
all  he  thinks  of — whiskey.  His  idea  of  God  is 
a  bartender  that  keeps  setting  out  the  drinks  and 
never  strikes  you  for  the  price.  If  I  give  him  a 
decent  suit  of  clothes,  it's  pawned  and  he's  drunk. 
He  used  to  pawn  the  things  from  the  house — 
but  he  don't  do  that  any  more !  He  mustn't  have 
a  cent.  That's  why  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  turn 
him  down  the  next  time  he  tries  to  touch  you  for 
one  of  his  'loans.' ' 

"That's  an  easy  promise,"  David  answered 
with  a  smile. 

"Thanks." 

Her  business  was  done,  but  she  did  not  rise. 
Her  swift  eyes  ran  over  the  furnishings  of  the 
room — the  bed,  the  crippled  wash-stand,  with  its 
chipped  bowl  and  broken-lipped  pitcher,  the 
dishes  in  the  soap-box  cupboard,  the  gas  stove 
under  the  bed,  the  bare,  splintered  floor,  the  walls 
from  which  the  blue  kalsomine  was  flaking — ran 
over  David's  shapeless  clothes.  Then  they 
stopped  on  his  face. 

"You're  a  queer  bird,"  she  said  abruptly. 

He  started.     "Queer?" 

She  gave  a  little  jerk  of  a  nod.  "You  didn't 
always  live  in  a  room  like  this,  nor  wear  them 
kind  of  clothes.  And  you  didn't  learn  your 
manners  over  on  the  Bowery  neither.  What's 
the  matter?  Up  against  it?" 

David  stared  at  her.  "Don't  you  think  there 
may  be  another  queer  bird  in  the  room?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

She  was  not  rebuffed,  but  for  a  second  she 


64  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

studied  his  face  with  an  even  sharper  glance,  in 
which  there  was  the  least  glint  of  suspicion. 
"You  mean  me,"  she  said.  "I  live  across  the 
hall  with  my  father.  When  I'm  at  work  I'm  a 
maid  in  swell  families — sometimes  a  nurse  girl. 
Nothing  queer  about  that." 

"No — o,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 

She  returned  to  the  attack.  "What  do  you 
do?" 

"I'm  looking  for  work." 

"What  have  you  worked  at?" 

The  directness  with  which  she  moved  at  what 
interested  her  might  have  amused  David  had  that 
directness  not  been  searching  for  what  he  desired 
for  the  present  to  conceal.  "I  only  came  to  New 
York  yesterday,"  he  said  evasively. 

"But  you've  been  in  New  York  before?" 

"Not  for  several  years." 

She  was  getting  too  close.  "I'm  a  very  stupid 
subject  for  talk,"  he  said  quickly.  "Now  you — 
you  must  have  had  some  very  interesting  experi- 
ences in  the  homes  of  the  rich.  You  saw  the 
rich  from  the  inside.  Tell  me  about  them." 

She  was  not  swerved  an  instant  from  her  point. 
"You're  very  interesting.  The  first  minute  I 
saw  you  I  spotted  you  for  a  queer  one  to  be  liv- 
ing in  a  place  like  this.  What've  you  been  doing 
since  you  were  in  New  York  before?" 

David  could  not  hold  back  a  flush;  no  evasive 
reply  was  waiting  at  his  lips.  Several  seconds 
passed.  "Pardon  me,  but  don't  you  think  you're 
a  little  too  curious?"  he  said  with  an  effort. 

Her  penetrating  eyes  had  not  left  him.  Now 
understanding  flashed  into  her  face.  She  emit- 
ted a  low  whistle. 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR  65 

"So  that's  it,  is  it!"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
softer  than  it  had  been.  "So  you've  been  sent 
away,  and  just  got  out.  And  you're  starting  in 
to  try  the  honesty  game." 

There  was  no  foiling  her  quick  penetration. 
He  nodded  his  head. 

He  had  wondered  how  the  world  would  receive 
him.  She  was  the  first  member  of  the  free  world 
he  had  met  who  had  learned  his  prison  record, 
and  he  waited,  chokingly,  her  action.  He  ex- 
pected her  face  to  harden  accusingly — expected 
her  to  rise,  speak  despisingly  and  march  coldly 
out. 

"Well,  you  are  up  against  it  good  and  hard," 
she  said  slowly.  There  was  sympathy  in  her 
voice. 

The  sympathy  startled  him ;  he  warmed  to  her. 
But  straightway  it  entered  his  mind  that  she 
would  hasten  to  spread  her  discovery,  and  to  live 
in  the  house  might  then  be  to  live  amid  insult. 

"You  have  committed  burglary  on  my  mind — 
you  have  stolen  my  secret,"  he  said  sharply. 

"Oh,  but  I'll  never  tell,"  she  quickly  returned. 
And  David,  looking  at  her  clear  face,  found  him- 
self believing  her. 

She  tried  with  quick  questions  to  break  into 
his  past,  but  he  blocked  her  with  silence.  After 
a  time  she  glanced  at  a  watch  upon  her  breast, 
rose  and  reached  for  the  door-knob.  But  David 
sprang  quickly  forward.  "Allow  me,"  he  said, 
and  opened  the  door  for  her. 

The  courtesy  did  not  go  unnoticed.  "You 
must  have  been  a  real  'gun,'  a  regular  high-flyer, 
in  your  good  days,"  she  whispered. 

"Why?" 


66  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Oh,  your  kind  of  manners  don't  grow  on 
cheap  crooks." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "Well,  I  wish  you 
luck.  Come  over  and  see  me  sometime.  Good 
night." 

When  he  had  closed  the  door  David  sat  down 
and  fell  to  musing  over  his  visitor.  She  was 
dressed  rather  too  showily,  but  she  was  not 
coarse.  She  was  bold,  but  not  brazen;  hers 
seemed  the  boldness,  the  directness,  of  a  child  or 
a  savage.  Perhaps,  in  this  quality,  she  was  not 
grown  up,  or  not  yet  civilised.  He  wondered 
how  a  maid  or  a  nurse  girl  could  support  a  father 
on  her  earnings,  as  he  inferred  she  did.  He 
wondered  how  she  had  so  quickly  divined  that  he 
was  fresh  from  prison.  He  remembered  a  yel- 
low stain  near  the  ends  of  the  first  two  ringers 
of  her  left  hand;  cigarettes;  and  the  stain  made 
him  wonder,  too.  And  he  wondered  at  her  man- 
ner— sharp,  no  whit  of  coquetry,  a  touch  of 
frank  good  fellow-ship  at  the  last. 

Presently  a  hand  which  had  been  casually 
fumbling  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat  drew 
out  a  folded  paper.  It  was  the  bulletin  of  the 
work  at  St.  Christopher's,  and  he  now  remem- 
bered that  the  director  of  the  Mission  (Dr.  Jo- 
seph Franklin,  the  bulletin  gave  his  name)  had 
handed  it  to  him  the  night  before  and  that  he 
had  mechanically  thrust  it  into  his  pocket  and 
forgotten  it.  He  began  to  look  it  through  with 
pride;  in  a  sense  it  was  the  record  of  his  work. 
He  read  the  schedule  of  religious  services, 
classes,  boys'  clubs  and  girls'  clubs.  Toward  the 
middle  of  the  latter  list  this  item  stopped  him 
short: 


A  CALL  FROM  A  NEIGHBOUR     67 

WHITTIEE  CLUB  —  Members  aged  17  to  20.  Meets 
Wednesday  evenings.  Leader,  Miss  Helen  Chambers. 

This  was  Wednesday  evening.  David  put  on 
his  hat,  and  ten  minutes  later,  his  coat  collar 
turned  up,  his  slouch  hat  pulled  down,  he  was 
standing  in  the  dark  doorway  of  a  tenement,  his 
eyes  fastened  on  the  club-house  entrance  twenty 
yards  down  the  street. 

After  what  seemed  an  endless  time,  she  ap- 
peared. Dr.  Franklin  was  with  her,  evidently 
to  escort  her  to  her  car.  David  gazed  at  her, 
as  they  came  toward  his  doorway,  with  all  the 
intensity  of  his  great  love.  She  was  tall,  almost 
as  tall  as  Dr.  Franklin;  and  she  had  that  grace 
of  carriage,  that  firm  poise  of  bearing,  which 
express  a  noble,  healthy  womanhood  under  per- 
fect self-control.  David  had  not  seen  her  face 
last  night;  and  he  now  kept  his  eyes  upon  it, 
waiting  till  it  should  come  within  the  white  cir- 
cle of  the  street  lamp  near  the  doorway. 

When  the  lamp  lifted  the  shadows  from  her 
face,  a  great  thrill  ran  through  him.  Ah,  how 
beautiful  it  was ! — beauty  of  contour  and  colour, 
yes,  but  here  the  fleshly  beauty,  which  so  often 
is  merely  flesh  for  flesh's  sake,  was  the  beautiful 
expression  of  a  beautiful  soul.  There  was  a 
high  dignity  in  the  face,  and  understanding,  and 
womanly  tenderness.  It  was  a  face  that  for 
seven  years  had  to  him  summed  up  the  richest, 
rarest  womanhood. 

She  passed  so  close  that  he  could  have  touched 
her,  but  he  flattened  himself  within  the  doorway's 
shadow.     After  she  had  gone  by  he  leaned  out 
and  followed  her  with  his  hungry  eyes. 
Could  he  ever,  ever  win  her  respect? 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN 

THE  next  day  the  search  for  work  had  to 
be  begun,  and  David  felt  himself  squarely 
against  the  beginning  of  his  new  career  as  an 
ex-convict.  He  saw  this  career,  not  as  a  part 
to  be  abandoned  when  it  wearied  him,  like  a  role 
assumed  for  a  season  by  a  sociological  investi- 
gator, but  as  the  part  he  must  play,  must  live,, 
to  the  end  of  his  days.  His  immediate  struggle, 
his  whole  future,  would  not  be  one  whit  other 
than  if  he  were  in  truth  the  thief  the  world  had 
branded  him.  Writing  for  the  magazines  was 
not  to  be  thought  of,  for  he  needed  quick,  cer- 
tain money.  He  was  friendless ;  he  had  no  pro- 
fession; he  had  no  trade;  he  had  never  held  a 
position;  he  had  no  experience  of  a  commercial 
value.  All  in  all  his  equipment  for  facing  the 
world,  barring  his  education,  was  identical  with 
the  equipment  of  the  average  discharged  convict. 
David  did  not  look  forward  into  this  career 
with  resignation.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
willing  martyr  in  him.  The  life  he  must  fol- 
low was  not  going  to  be  easy;  it  would  demand 
his  all  of  courage  and  endurance.  He  longed 
to  stand  before  the  world  a  clean  man,  and  the 
longing  was  at  times  a  fierce  rebellion.  He  had 
bought  a  great  good,  but  he  was  paying  there- 
for a  bitter  price,  and  every  day  of  his  life  he 

68 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        69 

must  pay  the  price  anew.  Yet  he  faced  the  fu- 
ture with  determination,  if  not  with  happiness. 
He  believed  that  earnest  work  and  earnest  liv- 
ing would  regain  the  world's  respect — would 
slowly  force  the  world  to  yield  him  place. 

He  tried  to  forbid  himself  thinking  of  Helen 
Chambers  as  having  the  slightest  part  in  his  fu- 
ture. She  was  a  thousand  times  farther  removed 
than  four  years  before,  when  his  name  had  been 
fair,  and  then  the  space  of  the  universe  had 
stretched  between  them.  And  yet  the  desire 
some  day  to  appear  well  in  her  eyes  was  after 
all  the  strongest  motive,  stronger  even  than  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation,  that  urged  him 
upon  the  long,  uphill  struggle. 

David  had  determined  first  to  seek  work  on  a 
newspaper.  Some  of  the  things  he  had  written 
in  that  far-away  time  beyond  the  prison,  came 
back  to  him.  They  were  not  bad — they  were 
really  good!  If  he  could  get  on  one  of  the  pa- 
pers, and  could  manage  to  hold  his  place  for  a 
few  months  without  his  story  being  learned,  per- 
haps by  then  he  would  have  so  proved  his  worth 
that  he  would  be  retained  despite  his  prison  rec- 
ord. He  would  do  his  best!  Who  knew? — life 
might  have  a  very  endurable  place  for  him  some- 
where in  the  years  ahead.  He  grew  almost  ex- 
cited as  he  gazed  at  the  dimly-seen  success. 

Before  starting  out  upon  his  first  try  at  for- 
tune, he  gazed  into  the  mirror  above  his 
wash-stand  and  for  a  long  time  studied  his  face, 
wondering  if  the  men  he  was  going  to  meet 
would  read  his  record  there.  The  forehead  was 
broad,  and  about  the  grey  eyes  and  the  wide 
mouth  were  the  little  puckering  wrinkles  that  an- 


70  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

nounce  the  dreamer.  The  chin  was  the  chin  of 
the  man  of  will.  In  health  the  face  would  have 
suggested  a  rare  combination  of  idealism  and 
will-power;  but  now  there  brooded  over  it  that 
hesitancy,  that  blanched  gloom,  which  come  from 
living  within  the  dark  shadows  of  prison.  No 
one  looking  at  his  thin,  slightly  stooping  figure 
would  have  ever  guessed  that  here  was  Dave 
Aldrich,  the  great  half-back  of  '95. 

After  filling  the  forenoon  by  writing  for  his 
belongings,  which  his  New  Jersey  landlady  had 
promised  to  keep  till  he  should  send  for  them, 
and  by  dreaming  of  the  future,  David  set  out 
for  the  hurly-burly  that  seethes  within  and  with- 
out the  sky-supporting  buildings  of  Park  Row. 
At  the  entrance  to  the  first  newspaper  office,  his 
courage  suddenly  all  flowed  from  him.  Would 
he  be  recognised  as  a  jailbird?  His  ill-fitting 
prison-made  suit,  that  clothed  him  in  reproach, 
that  burned  him — was  it  not  an  announcement 
of  his  record?  He  turned  away  in  panic. 

But  he  had  to  go  in,  and  fiercely  mastering 
his  throbbing  agitation,  he  returned  to  the  office 
and  entered.  The  city  editor,  a  sharp-faced 
young  man,  after  hearing  that  David  had  no 
newspaper  experience,  snapped  out  in  a  quick 
voice,  "Sorry,  for  I  need  a  man — but  I've  got  no 
time  to  break  in  a  green  hand,"  and  the  follow- 
ing instant  was  shouting  to  a  "copy"  boy  for 
proofs. 

At  the  next  place  the  slip  on  which  David  had 
been  required  to  write  his  business,  came  back 
to  him  with  the  two  added  words,  "Nothing  do- 
ing." At  the  third  place  the  returned  slip  bore 
the  statement,  "Got  all  the  men  I  need."  The 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        71 

fourth  editor,  whom  he  saw,  gave  him  a  short 
negative.  The  fifth  editor  sent  word  by  mouth 
of  the  office  boy  that  his  staff  was  full.  It  re- 
quired all  David's  determination  to  mount  to  the 
sixth  office,  that  of  an  able  and  aggressively  re- 
spectable paper. 

The  boy  who  took  in  his  request  to  the  city 
editor  returned  at  once  and  led  David  across  a 
large  dingy  room,  with  littered  floor,  and  grime- 
streaked  windows.  Young  men,  coatless,  high- 
geared,  sat  at  desks  scribbling  with  pencils  and 
clicking  typewriters;  boys,  answering  the  quick 
cries  of  "copy!"  scurried  about  through  the  heavy 
tobacco  smoke.  The  room  was  a  rectangular 
solid  of  bustling  intensity. 

The  city  editor,  who  occupied  a  corner  of  the 
room,  waved  David  to  a  chair.  Again  David 
repeated  the  formula  of  his  desire,  and  again  he 
was  asked  his  experience. 

"I've  had  no  experience  on  a  paper,"  he  re- 
plied, "but  I've  done  a  lot  of  writing  in  a  pri- 
vate way." 

"You're  practically  a  new  man,  then."  The 
editor  thought  for  a  moment,  and  David  eagerly 
watched  his  face.  It  was  business-like,  but 
kindly.  "Why,  I  guess  I  might  take  the  trouble 
to  lick  a  man  into  shape — if  he  seemed  to  have 
the  right  stuff  in  him.  Anyhow,  I  might  give 
you  a  trial.  But  you're  not  very  young  to  be 
just  beginning  the  game.  What've  you  been 
working  at?" 

David  felt  the  guilty  colour  warming  his 
cheeks.  "Writing." 

"All  the  time?" 

He  tried  to  speak  naturally.     "The  last  few 


72  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

years  I  have  been  trying  to  do  some — manual 
work." 

"Here  in  the  city?" 

"No.     Out  of  town." 

The  editor  could  not  but  notice  David's 
flushed  face  and  its  strained  look.  He  eyed 
David  narrowly,  and  his  brow  wrinkled  in 
thought.  David  strove  to  force  a  natural  look 
upon  his  face.  "Aldrich,"  the  editor  said  to 
himself,  "Aldrich — David  Aldrich  you  said. 
That  sounds  familiar.  Where  have  I  heard  that 
in  the  last  few  days?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  David,  his  lips  dry;  but 
he  thought  of  a  paragraph  he  had  read  on  the 
ride  from  prison  announcing  his  discharge. 

"O-o-h!"  said  the  editor,  and  his  eyes  sharp- 
ened. David  understood.  The  editor  had  also 
remembered  the  paragraph. 

The  editor's  gaze  dropped  to  his  desk,  as 
though  embarrassed.  "I'm  very  sorry — but  I'm 
afraid  I  can't  use  you  after  all.  I  really  don't 
need  any  men.  But  I  hope  you'll  find  some- 
thing without  trouble." 

The  blow  was  gently  delivered,  but  it  was  still 
a  blow — one  that,  as  he  walked  dazedly  from  the 
office,  made  his  courage  totter.  He  told  himself 
that  he  had  counted  upon  just  such  experiences 
as  this,  that  he  had  planned  for  a  month  of  re- 
buffs— and  gradually,  as  the  evening  wore  away, 
he  preached  spirit  back  into  himself.  However, 
he  would  make  no  further  attempts  to  find  news- 
paper work.  Even  should  he  be  so  lucky  as  to 
secure  a  place,  some  one  of  the  score  or  two  score 
fellow-workers  would  be  certain  to  connect  him 
with  the  newly-liberated  convict,  as  the  editor 


had  done,  and  then — discharge.  For  the  pres- 
ent, it  would  be  better  to  seek  a  position  among 
the  large  business  houses. 

At  dawn  the  next  morning  David  was  reading 
the  "Help  Wanted"  columns  of  a  newspaper, 
and  two  hours  later  he  was  sitting  in  the  office 
of  the  superintendent  of  the  shipping  depart- 
ment of  a  wholesale  dress-goods  house  that  had 
advertised  for  a  shipping  clerk.  The  superin- 
tendent scrutinised  David's  face,  making  David 
feel  that  the  prison  mark  was  appearing,  like  an 
image  on  a  developing  plate,  and  then  demanded : 
"Why  do  you  want  a  job  like  this?  This  ain't 
your  class." 

"Because  I  need  it." 

"Had  any  experience  as  a  shipping  clerk?" 

"No.     But  I'm  mighty  willing  to  learn." 

"Well,  let's  see  your  letters  from  previous  em- 
ployers." 

David  hesitated.  "I  have  none."  He  felt 
the  red  proclamation  of  his  record  begin  to  burn 
in  his  cheeks. 

"Have  none!"  The  superintendent  looked 
suspicious.  "No  references  at  all?" 

David  shook  his  head;  his  cheeks  flamed  red- 
der. 

"Who've  you  worked  for?" 

To  mention  here  his  four  years  of  writing 
would  be  absurd.  "No  one,"  he  stammered — 
"that  is,  I've  had  no  business  experience." 

The  superintendent's  reply  came  out  sharply: 
"No  experience — no  references — can't  use  you. 
Good  morning." 

David  stumbled  out,  not  noticing  the  relief  his 
dejection  gave  the  other  applicants  waiting  out- 


74,  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

side  the  office.  He  saw  the  difficulty  of  his  sit- 
uation with  a  new,  startling  clearness ;  the  super- 
intendent had  summed  it  up  with  business-like 
conciseness — "no  experience,  no  references." 
A  sudden  fear,  a  sudden  consternation,  clutched 
him.  Would  he  ever  be  able  to  pass  that  great 
wall  standing  between  him  and  a  position?— 
that  wall  builded  of  his  prison  record,  of  no  ex- 
perience, of  no  references? 

Whether  or  not,  he  must  try.  He  hurried  to 
another  office  that  had  advertised  for  help,  and 
to  another,  and  to  another — and  so  on  for  days. 
Usually  he  was  turned  away  because  there  was 
really  no  work,  but  several  times  because  to  the 
penetrating  questions  he  could  return  only  his 
distrust-rousing  answers.  His  courage  tried  to 
escape ;  but  he  caught  it  and  held  it,  desperately. 

Saturday  evening  an  expressman  delivered  a 
box  sent  by  his  old  New  Jersey  landlady.  The 
charge  was  a  dollar,  and  the  dollar's  payment 
was  a  tragedy.  The  box  contained  only  a  few 
of  the  things  he  had  left  behind  him.  His  land- 
lady, though  kind,  was  careless,  his  things  had 
become  scattered  during  the  four  years,  and  the 
contents  of  the  box  were  all  she  had  been  able  to 
get  together.  There  were  a  few  of  his  books,  a 
few  photographs  and  prints,  a  few  ornaments,  a 
pair  of  boxing  gloves,  most  of  his  manuscripts, 
and  an  overcoat.  The  overcoat  at  least  was 
worth  having,  with  cool  weather  but  a  few  weeks 
off. 

The  second  week  was  an  elaboration  of  the  first 
few  days,  and  the  first  half  of  the  third  was 
the  same.  Then  he  had  three  days'  work  at  ad- 
dressing envelopes — girls'  work  and  boys'  work, 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        75 

for  which  he  was  paid  eighty-five  cents  a  day. 
Then  the  search  again. 

At  length  he  found  a  place.  It  was  in  a  small 
department  store  in  One  Hundred  and  Twenty- 
fifth  Street — a  store  that  in  fifteen  years  had 
developed  from  a  notion  shop  occupying  a  mere 
hole  in  the  wall.  The  proprietor  was  one  of 
those  men  who  do  not  see  the  master  chances, 
the  thousands  and  the  millions,  but  who  see  a 
multitude  of  little  chances,  the  pennies  and  the 
dollars.  He  squeezed  his  creditors,  his  custom- 
ers, his  shopgirls — kept  open  later  than  other 
stores  to  squeeze  a  few  last  drops  of  profit  from 
the  day.  His  success  was  the  sum  of  thousands 
of  petty  advantages. 

When  David  came  to  him  he  saw  that  here 
was  a  man  in  cruel  need.  The  labour  of  a  man 
in  cruel  need  is  yours  at  your  own  price — is,  in 
fact,  a  bargain.  He  had  had  enough  experience 
with  bargains  in  merchandise  to  know  that  when 
a  rarely  good  bargain  offers  it  is  best  to  snap  it 
up  and  not  question  too  closely  into  the  reasons 
for  its  cheapness.  So  he  offered  David  a  place 
in  the  kitchen  furnishing  department.  Salary, 
five  dollars  a  week. 

David  accepted.  His  first  week's  salary, 
minus  ten  cents  a  day  for  car  fare  and  ten  cents 
for  luncheon,  amounted  to  three  dollars  and 
eighty  cents.  He  had  begun  a  second  month 
in  his  room,  and  his  landlady,  seeing  how  poor 
he  was,  again  demanded  her  rent  in  advance. 
After  paying  her,  David  had  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter  left.  But  he  had  a  job — a  poor  job,  but 
still  a  job. 

The  following  Sunday  afternoon,  as  he  sat 


76  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

at  his  window,  pretending  to  read,  but  in  reality 
staring  dreamily  down  through  the  spider's-web 
of  clothes  lines  into  the  deep,  dreary  backyard, 
Kate  Morgan  came  in.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  her  since  her  visit  of  a  month  before, 
though  he  had  called  several  times  at  her  flat, 
to  be  told  by  her  father  that  she  was  away  at 
work. 

"Good  afternoon!"  she  cried,  and  giving  him 
her  hand  she  marched  in  before  he  could  speak. 
"Take  the  chair  yourself  this  time,"  she  said,  and 
sat  down  on  the  bed,  her  feet  hanging  clear. 

She  wore  a  black  tailored  suit  and  a  beplumed 
hat.  Evidently  she  had  just  come  in  from  walk- 
ing, for  the  warm  colour  of  the  late  October  air 
was  in  her  cheeks.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
it  this  time — she  was  pretty.  And  there  was  a 
lightness,  a  sauciness,  in  her  manner  that  had  not 
showed  on  her  previous  visit. 

"Well,  sir,  how've  you  been?"  she  demanded, 
after  David  had  taken  the  chair. 

He  tried,  somewhat  heavily,  to  fit  his  mood  to 
hers.  "I  can't  say  I've  cornered  the  happiness 
market.  You  haven't  noticed  a  rise  in  quota- 
tions, have  you?" 

"Nope,"  she  said,  swinging  her  feet — and 
David  had  to  see  that  they  were  very  shapely 
and  in  neat  patent  leather  shoes,  and  that  the 
ankles  were  very  trim.  "I  just  got  back  this 
morning.  How's  dad  been?  And  how  many 
loans  has  he  stuck  you  for?" 

"To  be  exact,  he's  tried  seven  times  and  failed 
seven  times." 

"Good!  But  dad's  better  now  than  he  used  to 
be.  When  I  first  began  to  go  away  I'd  leave 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        77 

him  enough  money  to  last  for  a  week,  or  till  I'd 
be  home  again.  He  always  went  off  on  a  spree 
—never  failed.  So  now  I  mail  him  thirty  cents 
every  day.  It  ain't  quite  enough  to  live  decent 
on,  and  at  the  same  time  it  ain't  quite  enough  to 
get  drunk  on.  See  ?  So  I  guess  he  keeps  pretty 
sober." 

"I  guess  he  does,"  said  David,  not  quite  able 
to  restrain  a  smile.  "But  how've  you  been?" 

"Me?"  She  shook  her  head  with  a  doleful  lit- 
tle air.  "I've  been  having  a  regular  hell  of  a 
time.  I've  been  nurse  girl  in  a  swell  house  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  It's  built  out  of  gold  and  dia- 
monds and  such  stuff.  The  missus  was  one  of 
these  society  head-liners.  You  know  the  sort — 
good  shape,  good  complexion,  swell  dresses,  and 
that's  all.  Somebody  made  the  dresses,  her 
make-up  box  made  her  complexion,  and  her  cor- 
set made  her  figure.  Soul,  heart,  brain — pstl 
Once  every  day  or  two  she'd  come  to  the  nursery 
just  long  enough  to  rub  a  bit  of  her  complexion 
on  the  children's  faces.  And  she  treated  me  like 
I  wasn't  there.  Oh,  but  wouldn't  I  like  to  wring 
her  neck!  But  I'll  get  square  with  her,  you 
bet!" 

She  gave  a  grimly  threatening  jerk  of  her  lit- 
tle head,  then  smiled  again.  "But  what's  your 
luck?  Got  a  job  yet?" 

"Yes." 

"What  doing?" 

David  shrunk  from  telling  this  brilliantly- 
dressed  creature  how  lowly  his  work  was,  but  he 
had  to  confess.  "Clerking  in  a  department 
store." 

"How  much  do  you  make?" 


78 

That  awful  inquisitiveness ! 

"Five  dollars  a  week." 

Her  black  eyes  stared  at  him,  then  suddenly 
she  leaned  back  and  laughed.  He  reddened. 
She  straightened  up,  bent  forward  till  her  el- 
bows rested  on  her  knees,  and  gazed  into  his  face. 

"Five — dollars — a — week!"  she  said.  "And 
you  a  king  crook !"  She  shook  her  head  wonder- 
ingly.  "And,  please  sir,  how  do  you  like  being 
honest  at  five  dollars  a  week?" 

"Hardly  as  well  as  I  would  at  six,"  he  an- 
swered, trying  to  speak  lightly. 

She  was  silent  for  almost  a  minute,  her  eyes 
incredulously  on  him.  "Mr.  David  Aldrich," 
she  remarked  slowly,  "you're  a  fool!" 

He  was  startled — and  his  wonderment  about 
her  returned.  "I've  often  said  the  same,"  he 
agreed.  "But  do  you  mind  telling  why  you 
think  so?" 

"A  man  that  can  make  his  hundreds  a  week, 
works  for  his  living  at  five." 

He  assumed  such  innocence  of  appearance  as 
he  could  command.  "I'm  a  little  surprised  to 
hear  this,  especially  from  a  woman  who  also 
works  for  her  living." 

Her  look  of  wonderment  gave  place  to  a  queer 
little  smile.  "Hum!"  She  straightened  up. 
"D'you  mind  if  I  smoke?"  she  asked  abruptly, 
drawing  a  silver  cigarette  case  from  a  pocket  of 
her  skirt. 

The  women  David  had  known  had  not  smoked. 
But  he  said  "no"  and  accepted  a  cigarette  when 
she  offered  him  the  open  box.  She  struck  a 
match,  held  the  flame  first  to  him,  then  lit  her 
own  cigarette. 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        79 

She  drew  deeply.  "To-day's  the  first  time 
I've  dared  smoke  for  a  month.  Ah,  but  it's 
good!" 

She  stared  again  at  David,  and  now  with  that 
penetrating  gaze  of  her  last  visit.  A  minute 
passed.  David  grew  very  uncomfortable. 
Then  she  announced  abruptly:  "You're  on  the 
dead  level!" 

The  queer  little  smile  came  back.  "Yes,  I 
work  for  my  living.  And  I  keep  my  flat,  keep 
my  father,  dress  myself,  have  plenty  of  money 
for  good  times,  and  put  aside  enough  so  that  I 
can  knock  off  work  whenever  I  like — all  on  a 
maid's  twenty  a  month.  And  how  do  you  sup- 
pose I  do  it?" 

David  wondered  what  was  coming  next,  but 
did  not  answer.  A  fear  that  had  been  creeping 
into  his  mind  suddenly  grew  into  definiteness. 

"People  around  here  think  I've  got  a  rich  old 
lover,"  she  said. 

He  felt  a  sinking  at  his  heart.  This  had  been 
his  sudden  fear.  And  she  took  the  shame  in 
such  a  matter-of-fact  way! 

"I  let  'em  think  so,  for  that  explains  every- 
thing to  them.  But  they're  wrong."  The  queer 
smile  broadened.  "What  do  you  think?" 

"I  could  never  guess,"  said  David. 

She  leaned  forward,  and  her  voice  lowered  to 
a  whisper.  "You  and  me — we're  in  the  same 
trade." 

"What!    You're  a ';     He  hesitated. 

"That's  it,"  she  said.  "A  nurse  girl  or  a  maid 
in  a  rich  house  sees  a  lot  of  things  lying  around. 
Or,  if  she  wants  to,  she  can  stay  for  two  or  three 
weeks  or  a  month,  learn  where  the  valuables  are 


80  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

kept,  make  a  plan  of  the  house,  get  hold  of  keys. 
Then  she  gets  a  pal,  and  they  clean  the  place  out. 
That's  me." 

There  was  a  glow  of  excitement  in  her  eyes, 
and  pride,  and  a  triumphant  sense  of  having 
startled  him.  For  the  moment  he  merely  stared 
at  her,  could  make  no  response. 

"There,  we  know  each  other  now,"  she  said, 
and  took  several  puffs  at  her  cigarette.  "But 
ain't  you  tired  of  the  honesty  life  at  five  per?" 

"No." 

"You  soon  will  be!"  she  declared.  "Then 
you'll  go  back  to  the  old  thing.  All  the  other 
boys  that  try  the  honesty  stunt  do.  They're  up 
against  too  stiff  a  proposition.  You're  way  out 
of  my  class,  but  when  you  get  tired,  mebbe  I  can 
put  something  in  your  way  that  won't  be  so  bad. 
By-the-by,  you  ain't  ready  for  something  now, 
are  you?"  A  vindictive  look  came  into  her  face. 
"Mrs.  Make-Up-Box  gets  it  next.  And  she'll 
get  it,  too!" 

"I'm  going  to  stick  it  out,"  said  David. 

She  gave  a  little  sniff.     "We'll  see!" 

Her  eyes  swept  the  room,  fell  upon  the  little 
heap  of  photographs  and  prints  lying  on  the 
box  in  which  he  had  stacked  his  books.  "Why 
don't  you  put  those  things  up?" 

"I  don't  know — I  just  haven't." 

"We'll  do  it  now." 

She  slipped  to  her  feet,  went  out  the  door, 
and  two  minutes  later  reappeared  with  a  handful 
of  tacks,  a  hammer,  and  a  white  curtain.  She 
took  off  her  hat  and  coat,  and  for  the  next  half 
hour  she  was  tacking  the  pictures  upon  the  scal- 
ing walls — first  trying  them  here  and  there,  oc- 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        81 

casionally  asking  David's  advice  and  ignoring 
it  if  it  did  not  please  her.  Then  she  ordered  him 
upon  the  chair,  and  made  him,  under  her  direc- 
tion, fasten  the  curtain  into  place. 

"Well,  things  look  a  little  better,"  she  said 
when  all  was  done,  surveying  the  room.  Then, 
without  so  much  as  "by  your  leave,"  she  washed 
her  hands  in  his  wash-bowl  and  arranged  her  hair 
before  his  mirror,  chatting  all  the  while.  Hat 
and  coat  on  again,  she  opened  the  door.  "Mis- 
ter," she  said,  nodding  her  head  and  smiling  a 
keen  little  smile,  "I  give  you  two  months.  Then 
— the  old  way!" 

She  closed  the  door  and  was  gone. 

On  the  third  morning  of  the  new  week,  as 
David  left  the  elevated  station  to  walk  the  few 
blocks  to  the  store,  he  noticed  that  a  policeman's 
eyes  were  on  him.  David  thought  he  recognised 
the  officer  as  one  who  had  been  present  at  his 
trial,  and  hurried  uneasily  away.  A  block  fur- 
ther on  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder;  the  police- 
man was  following.  The  uneasiness  became  ap- 
prehension, and  the  apprehension  would  have 
become  consternation  had  he,  a  little  after  enter- 
ing the  store,  seen  the  officer  also  come  in. 

A  few  minutes  after  he  had  begun  to  dust 
his  tinware,  he  was  summoned  to  the  office.  The 
proprietor's  little  pig-eyes  were  gleaming,  his 
great  pig- jowl  flushing.  He  sprang  to  his  full 
height,  which  was  near  David's  shoulder.  "You 
dirty,  lying,  cut-throat  of  a  convict!"  he  roared. 
"Get  out  o'  my  store!" 

"What's  that?"  gasped  David. 

The  proprietor  shook  a  fat  fist  at  David's  face. 
"Get  out  o'  here !  You  came  to  me  as  an  honest 


82  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

man!  I  hired  you  as  an  honest  man!  You  de- 
ceived me.  You're  nothing  but  a  dirty,  sneak- 
ing jail-bird!  You  came  in  here  just  to  get  a 
chance  to  rob  me !  You'd  have  done  it,  too,  if  a 
policeman  hadn't  give  me  a  tip  as  to  what  you 
are!  Get  out  o'  here,  or  I'll  have  you  kicked 
out!" 

David  grew  afire  with  wrath.  It  was  useless 
to  plead  for  his  place ;  but  there  was  a  dollar  and 
seventy  cents  due  him.  For  that  he  choked  his 
anger  down.  "Very  well,  I'll  go,"  he  said,  as 
calmly  as  he  could.  "But  first  pay  me  for  my 
two  days." 

"Not  one  red  cent!"  David's  two  days'  pay 
was  one  of  the  kind  of  atoms  of  which  his  suc- 
cess was  composed.  "Not  a  cent!"  he  roared. 
"You  say  another  word  about  pay,  and  I'll  have 
you  arrested  for  the  things  you've  already  stolen 
from  me.  Now  clear  out! — you  low,  thieving 
jail-bird  you!" 

A  wild  rage,  the  eruptive  sum  of  long  insults 
and  suffering,  burst  forth  in  David.  He  took 
one  step  forward,  and  his  open  hand  smacked 
explosively  upon  the  flesh-padded  cheek  of  the 
proprietor.  The  proprietor  tottered,  sputter- 
ingly  recovered  his  balance — and  again  the  hand 
smacked  with  a  sharp  report. 

When  the  proprietor  gained  his  balance  a  sec- 
ond tune,  it  was  to  find  David  towering  over 
him,  face  inflamed,  fists  clenched. 

"My  money,  or  by  God  I'll  smash  your  head 
off!"  David  cried  furiously. 

The  proprietor  blanched,  trembled.  A  fear- 
impelled  hand  drew  silver  from  his  pocket  and 
gave  David  the  amount.  David  glanced  at  it, 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        83 

and  obeying  an  impulse  that  he  was  to  regret 
again  and  again,  flung  the  hard  coins  straight 
into  the  man's  face.  Then  he  walked  out  of  the 
office,  secured  his  hat  from  the  cloak-room  near 
by,  and  marched  through  the  store.  At  the  door 
the  frantic  proprietor,  who  had  rushed  ahead  to 
call  for  the  police,  tried  to  block  David's  way, 
but  David  bore  down  upon  him  with  so  menacing 
a  look  that  he  stepped  aside. 

Fortunately  the  street  was  filled  with  people, 
and  the  next  instant  David  was  lost  among  them. 
For  half  an  hour  he  aimlessly  walked  the  streets 
with  his  wrath.  Then  the  realisation  of  his  sit- 
uation began  to  cool  him.  However  unjust  had 
been  his  discharge,  and  however  brutish  its  man- 
ner, the  great  fact  was  not  thereby  changed. 
He  was  discharged,  and  he  had  in  his  pocket  less 
than  a  dollar. 

Then  the  wearying,  heart-breaking  search  for 
work  began  anew.  That  he  had  found  one  sit- 
uation made  him  think  he  might  find  another, 
but  at  the  end  of  a  week  he  had  met  with  nothing 
but  failure.  He  still  kept  on  the  march,  but  the 
spirit  was  gone  out  of  him.  The  search  for  work 
became  purely  an  affair  of  the  muscles:  his  legs 
carried  him  from  office  to  office,  at  each  his  lips 
repeated  their  request.  Muscle,  that  was  all — 
muscle  whipped  to  action  by  the  fear  of  starva- 
tion. 

But  though  his  spirit  was  worn  weak,  his  re- 
sentment was  not.  He  raged — at  times  fran- 
tically. Why  did  the  world  refuse  work  to  the 
poor  beings  the  prisons  sent  back  to  it?  Some 
of  them  were  inspired  by  good  resolutions;  to 
them  life  was  dear;  they  were  worth  saving. 


84  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

How  did  the  world  expect  them  to  live  and  be 
honest,  if  it  refused  them  means  of  life  and  of 
honesty?  He  could  find  but  one  answer  to  his 
questions:  the  world  was  selfish,  heartless.  He 
cursed  the  world,  and  he  cursed  the  God  that 
made  it. 

And  he  cursed  himself,  his  foolishness  that 
had  brought  him  here ;  and  he  cursed  Morton  and 
St.  Christopher's.  At  times  he  burned  with  the 
desire  to  clear  his  name,  come  what  might  to  the 
people  of  the  Mission.  It  is  so  hard  for  one, 
unfed,  cold,  hopeless,  to  be  heroic.  But  his 
judgment  told  him  that  the  truth  from  him 
would  go  unbelieved;  and  the  great  resolution 
behind  his  bargain,  the  long  habit  of  silence,  also 
restrained  his  declaration  of  innocence. 

But  even  amid  these  gloomy  weeks  there  were 
gentler  periods.  He  often  slipped  at  night  into 
the  neighbourhood  of  St.  Christopher's,  and 
stealthily  gazed  at  the  club-house,  its  windows 
aglow  with  friendliness  to  all  but  himself ;  at  the 
chapel,  with  the  Morton  memorial  window  send- 
ing its  warm  inspiration  into  the  streets — as  it 
did,  so  he  had  learned,  throughout  the  night. 
He  told  himself,  when  he  thus  stood  with  his 
work  before  his  eyes,  that  he  should  be  content. 
His  struggles  were  hard — yes ;  his  suffering  was 
great.  But  that  his  suffering,  the  suffering  of 
one  man,  should  hold  these  hundreds  a  little 
nearer  to  the  plain  decencies  of  life,  to  truth  and 
purity  and  honour,  a  little  nearer  to  God — this 
was  worth  while.  Yes,  the  bargain  was  a  great 
bargain. 

And  every  Wednesday  evening  he  looked  forth 
from  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  upon  Helen 


THE  SUPERFLUOUS  MAN        85 

Chambers  as  she  left  the  Mission.  And  at  the 
moment  she  passed  his  door  he  each  time  felt 
the  same  supreme  pang.  Three  feet  away! — 
as  far  away  as  the  stars ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  UNINVITED  GUEST 

BLACK  day  followed  black  day,  and  grudged 
penny  followed  grudged  penny,  till  at 
length  there  came  a  day  when  it  seemed  the 
blackness  could  become  no  blacker  and  when  his 
remaining  pennies  were  less  than  his  fingers. 
On  this  day  he  sat  long  at  his  window,  his  wasted, 
despair-tightened  face  looking  out  upon  the 
patched  undergarments  swinging  from  lines  and 
upon  the  boxes  and  barrels  and  bottles  and  pa- 
pers and  rags  that  littered  the  deep  bottom  of 
the  yard,  grimly  thinking  over  the  prophecy  of 
Kate  Morgan.  One  of  the  two  months  she  had 
given  his  honesty  was  gone.  By  the  time  the 
second  had  passed ?  He  shiveringly  won- 
dered. 

This  day  he  ate  no  evening  meal.  For  a  week 
now  one  meal  had  been  his  daily  ration,  and  that 
meal  pitiably  poor  and  pitiably  small.  He  sat 
about  his  room  till  his  nickel  clock — which  Kate 
Morgan  had  brought  in  one  day  and  deposited 
upon  the  wash-stand  with  her  undebatable  air  of 
finality — reported  quarter  past  nine,  when  he 
rose  and  walked  down  into  the  street.  It  had 
been  one  of  those  warm  days  that  sometimes 
come  in  mid-November — benign  messages  of  re- 
membrance, as  it  were,  from  departed  summer — - 
and  now  the  people  of  the  tenements  filled  the 

86 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST          87 

streets,  for  on  the  packed  East  Side  the  street, 
on  warm  days,  is  parlor  to  the  parent  and  the 
lover,  and  nursery  to  the  child. 

As  David  stepped  forth  he  did  not  notice  that 
he  was  watched  by  a  pair  of  keen,  boyish  eyes 
from  under  the  rim  of  a  battered  slouch  hat,  and 
had  he  noticed  he  would  not  have  been  aware  that 
these  same  eyes  had  watched  him  before.  It  was 
a  Wednesday  evening  and  David,  entangled 
among  the  people,  like  a  vessel  in  a  sargasso  sea, 
pursued  a  slow  course  toward  the  Mission,  never 
observing  that  a  boy  in  a  battered  hat  followed 
him  a  way  then  turned  back. 

He  took  his  place  in  the  shadowed  doorway 
and  waited  for  Helen  Chambers  to  appear.  In 
a  few  minutes  she  came  out,  Dr.  Franklin  with 
her  as  usual  There  was  also  a  second  man,  gray- 
haired  and  slightly  stooped,  whom  David  rec- 
ognised as  an  older  brother  of  Mr.  Chambers, 
and  whom  he  remembered  as  a  clear-visioned, 
gentle  old  philosopher  greatly  loved  by  his  niece. 
As  they  passed,  David  leaned  from  the  shadow 
to  follow  her  with  his  eyes,  and  the  light  from 
the  street  lamp  fell  across  his  face.  Dr.  Frank- 
lin, chancing  this  instant  to  look  in  David's  di- 
rection, excused  himself  to  Helen  and  her  uncle, 
who  moved  forward  a  few  paces,  and  stepped 
to  the  doorway.  David  pressed  frantically  back 
into  the  shadow. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Dr.  Franklin,  holding 
out  a  firm,  cordial  hand,  into  which  David  laid  his 
limp  fingers.  "I've  seen  you  about  several  times 
since  the  evening  you  called.  I've  been  looking 
for  a  chance  to  invite  you  to  the  Mission." 

David  hardly  heard  him.     He  was  thinking, 


88  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

wildly,  "Suppose  she  should  step  to  his  side? 
Suppose  he  should  draw  me  into  the  light?"  It 
was  a  moment  of  blissful,  agonising  consterna- 
tion. 

"Perhaps  I'll  come,"  he  managed  to  whisper. 
He  feared  lest  his  whisper  had  reached  her,  and 
lest  she  had  recognised  his  voice.  But  she  did 
not  look  around. 

"I  shall  expect  you.     Good  night." 

Dr.  Franklin  rejoined  Helen  and  her  uncle, 
and  David's  hearing,  which  strained  after  him, 
heard  him  explain  as  they  moved  away:  "A 
man  who  came  to  the  Mission  in  Mr.  Morton's 
time.  He  often  stands  about  the  Mission,  look- 
ing at  it,  but  he  never  comes  in." 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  David,  a- 
tremble  at  the  narrowness  of  his  escape,  slipped 
from  the  door  and  hurried  away.  As  he  went, 
the  old  question  besieged  him.  If ,  a  minute  ago, 
he  had  been  drawn  into  the  light,  would  she  have 
spoken  to  him?  And  if  she  had,  would  it  not 
have  been  coldly,  with  disdain? 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  tenement  he  had 
regained  part  of  his  lost  composure.  As  he 
slipped  the  key  into  his  door,  he  heard  a  sudden 
scrambling  sound  within.  All  his  senses  were 
instantly  called  to  alertness.  He  threw  open  the 
door,  and  sprang  into  the  darkened  room. 

In  the  same  instant  a  vague  figure  leaped 
through  the  open  window  out  upon  the  landing 
of  the  fire-escape.  David  crossed  the  little  room 
at  a  bound,  caught  the  coat-tails  of  the  escaping 
figure,  dragged  it  backwards.  The  figure 
turned  like  a  flash,  threw  something  over  David's 
head — a  sack,  David  thought — sprang  upon 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST          89 

David,  and  tied  the  something  round  his  neck 
with  a  fierce  embrace.  David  staggered  back- 
ward under  the  weight  of  his  adversary,  and  the 
two  went  to  the  floor  in  the  narrow  space  be- 
tween the  bed  and  the  wall. 

Instantly  the  figure,  with  a  jerk  and  a  cat- 
like squirm,  tried  to  break  away,  but  David's 
arms,  gripped  about  its  body,  held  it  fast.  Then 
it  resumed  its  choking  embrace  of  David's  neck. 
The  sack  about  his  head  was  heavy ;  the  air  hardly 
came  through  it.  He  began  to  gasp.  He  tried 
frantically  to  throw  the  figure  off,  but  it  held  its 
place.  Then  one  hand  fell  upon  a  mop  of  hair. 
He  clutched  it  and  pushed  fiercely  upward. 
The  embrace  broke,  and  two  fists  began  to  beat 
his  face  through  the  sack.  An  instant  later 
David  managed  to  scramble  to  his  feet  and  throw 
off  the  sack — and  he  then  saw  that  the  writhing, 
kicking  figure  he  had  captured  reached  midway 
between  his  waist  and  shoulders. 

His  right  hand  still  fastened  in  his  captive's 
hair,  David  lighted  the  gas.  There,  at  the  end 
of  his  arm,  was  a  boy  with  the  figure  of  fourteen 
and  the  face  of  twenty.  His  clothes,  baggy  and 
torn,  were  for  the  latter  age;  the  trousers  were 
rolled  up  six  years  at  the  bottom.  The  face  was 
wrinkled  in  a  scowl,  and  the  eyes  gleamed  defi- 
ance. He  was  panting  heavily.  On  the  floor 
lay  what  David  had  thought  was  a  sack;  it  was 
his  own  overcoat. 

"Why  you're  nothing  but  a  boy !"  David  cried. 

"A  boy!  Nuttin'I  If  I'd  been  in  form,  I'd 
'a'  showed  you!" 

David  locked  the  door,  cut  off  escape  by  stand- 
ing before  the  window,  and  disentangled  his  fin- 


90  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

gers  from  the  boy's  locks.  He  then  saw  that  the 
boy's  dirty  yellow  hair  flowed  upward  from  his 
forehead  in  a  cow-lick. 

The  boy  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  con- 
tinued his  defiant  stare. 

"Now,  sir,  what  were  you  doing  in  here?" 
David  demanded. 

"What  you  t'ink?"  the  boy  returned  coolly. 
"You  t'ink  I  come  to  collect  de  rent?" 

"You  tried  to  steal  my  coat." 

"Gee,  you're  wise!     How'd  you  guess  it?" 

David  regarded  the  little  fellow  steadily  for  a 
minute  or  more.  He  now  noticed  that  the  figure 
before  him  was  very  thin,  and  he  remembered 
that  once  the  embrace  had  been  broken  the  boy 
had  been  a  mere  child  even  to  his  own  weak 
strength. 

"What  did  you  want  that  coat  for?"  he  asked. 

"It's  like  dis,  cul,"  the  boy  answered  in  a  tone 
of  confidence.  "I  owns  a  swell  clo'es- joint  on 
Fift'  Avenoo,  an'  I'm  out  gittin'  in  me  fall 
stock." 

"What's  your  name?"  David  demanded. 

"Reggie  Vanderbilt." 

David  did  not  try  another  question.  He 
scrutinised  the  boy  in  silence,  wondering  what  he 
should  do  with  this  young  thief  who,  instead  of 
showing  the  proper  caught-in-the-act  penitence, 
persisted  in  wearing  the  air  of  one  who  is  master 
of  the  situation.  David  now  took  note  that  the 
boy's  coat-collar  was  turned  up  and  that  the  coat 
was  held  closed  by  a  button  near  the  throat  and 
a  safety  pin  at  the  bottom.  The  gaping  front 
of  the  coat  showed  him  a  white  line.  He  stepped 
forward,  and  with  a  quick  hand  loosened  the  but- 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST          91 

ton  at  the  throat.  It  was  as  he  had  guessed — 
nothing  but  a  mere  rag  of  an  undershirt  that  left 
the  chest  half  bare — and  the  bare  chest  was  rip- 
pled with  ribs. 

"Keep  out  o'  derel"  the  boy  snapped,  jerking 
away. 

David  was  silent;  then  he  said  accusingly: 
"You're  hungry!" 

"Well,  if  I  am — it's  me  own  bellyache  1" 

"You  tried  to  take  that  coat  because  you're 
hungry  ?" 

"I  did,  did  I?" 

"Didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  come  stop  jabbin'  me  in  de  ear  wid  your 
questions,"  the  boy  returned  sharply.  "What 
you  t'ink  I  took  it  for?  To  buy  me  goil  a  auto- 
mobile?" 

He  was  silent  for  several  moments,  his  bright 
eyes  on  David ;  then  he  threw  off  his  defiant  look. 
"Hungry?"  he  sniffed.  "You  don't  know  what 
de  woid  means!  Me — well,  me  belly  don't  have 
to  look  it  up  in  no  dictionary.  I  ain't  chawed 
nuttin'  but  wind  for  a  mont'." 

"You  were  going  to  sell  it?" 

"Nix.     Pawn  it." 

David  looked  from  the  boy  to  the  coat,  and 
from  the  coat  to  the  boy.  One  hand,  in  his 
pocket,  mechanically  fingered  his  fortune — seven 
coppers.  After  a  minute  he  picked  up  the  coat, 
put  it  across  his  arm,  and  opened  the  door. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 

The  boy  did  not  budge.  "Where  you  goin'  to 
take  me?"  he  asked  suspiciously. 

"Nowhere.     You're  going  to  take  me." 

"Where?" 


92  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"To  the  pawnshop,"  said  David. 

The  boy  gave  a  sneer  of  disgust,  and  an  out- 
ward push  with  an  open,  dirty  hand.  "Oh,  say 
now,  cul,  don't  feed  me  dat  infant's  food! 
D'you  t'ink  I  can't  see  t'rough  dat  steer?  I'm 
wise  to  where — to  de  first  cop!" 

He  shuffled  from  his  place  against  the  wall. 
"Well,  you  got  me.  Come  on.  Let's  go." 

He  stepped  through  the  door  and  stood  quietly 
till  David  had  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then  sud- 
denly he  darted  toward  the  stairway.  David 
sprang  after  him  and  caught  his  coat-tail  just 
as  he  was  taking  three  stairs  at  one  step.  David 
fastened  his  right  hand  upon  the  boy's  sleeve, 
and  side  by  side  they  marched  down  the  four 
flights  of  stairs  and  into  the  street. 

"Now  take  me  to  the  pawnshop,"  David  di- 
rected. 

The  boy  gave  a  knowing  grunt  but  said  noth- 
ing. He  walked  quietly  along  till  they  sighted 
a  policeman  standing  on  a  corner  half  a  block 
ahead.  Then  he  began  to  drag  backward,  and 
David  had  fairly  to  push  him.  As  they  came  up 
to  the  officer  David  glanced  down,  and  saw  tense- 
ness, alertness,  fear — the  look  of  the  captured 
animal  that  watches  for  a  chance  to  escape. 

The  officer  noticed  David's  grip  on  the  boy's 
sleeve.  "What  you  caught  there?"  he  demanded. 

"Just  a  friend  of  mine,"  David  answered,  and 
passed  on. 

After  a  few  paces  the  boy  peered  stealthily 
up,  an  uncomprehending  look  in  his  face.  "Say, 
pard,  you're  a  queer  guy!"  he  said;  and  a  mo- 
ment later  he  added:  "You  needn't  hold  me. 
I'll  go  wid  you." 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST  93 

David  withdrew  his  hand,  and  a  little  further 
on  the  boy  led  David  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
into  a  pawnbroker's  shop.  David  threw  the  coat 
upon  the  counter  and  asked  for  as  much  as  could 
be  advanced  upon  it. 

A  large  percentage  of  pledges  are  never  re- 
deemed, and  the  less  advanced  on  an  unredeemed 
pledge  the  greater  the  pawnbroker's  profit  when 
it  is  sold.  The  money-lender  looked  the  coat 
over.  "A  dollar  and  a  half,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  git  out  wid  your  plunk  and  a  half!"  the 
boy  cut  in.  "Dat's  stealin'  widout  takin'  de 
risks.  T'ree." 

"It  ain't  worth  it,"  returned  the  usurer. 

The  boy  picked  up  the  coat.  "Come  on,"  he 
said  to  David,  and  started  out. 

"Two!"  called  out  the  pawnbroker. 

The  boy  walked  on. 

"Two  and  a  half!" 

The  boy  returned  and  threw  the  coat  upon  the 
counter. 

Twenty  minutes  later  they  were  back  in  the 
room,  and  several  grocery  parcels  lay  on  the  bed. 
With  a  gaze  that  was  three  parts  wonderment 
and  one  part  suspicion,  the  boy  watched  David 
cooking  over  the  gas  stove.  He  made  no  reply 
to  David's  remarks  save  when  one  was  neces- 
sary, and  then  his  answer  was  no  more  than  a 
monosyllable. 

At  length  the  supper  was  ready.  The  table 
was  the  soap-box  cupboard,  so  placed  that  one 
of  them  might  have  the  edge  of  the  bed  as  his 
chair.  On  this  table  were  a  can  of  condensed 
milk,  a  mound  of  sliced  bread,  and  a  cube  of 
butter  in  its  wooden  dish.  On  the  gas  stove 


94  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

stood  a  frying-pan  of  eggs  and  bacon  and  a  pot 
of  coffee. 

After  the  boy,  at  David's  invitation,  had  black- 
ened a  basin  of  water  with  his  hands,  they  sat 
down.  David  gave  the  boy  two  eggs  and  sev- 
eral strips  of  bacon,  and  served  himself  a  like 
portion.  Then  they  set  to — one  taste  of  eggs 
or  bacon  to  three  or  four  bites  of  bread.  The 
boy  never  stopped,  and  David  paused  only  to 
refill  the  coffee  cups  from  time  to  time  and  to 
pour  into  them  a  pale  string  of  condensed  milk. 
And  the  boy  never  spoke,  save  once  there  oozed 
through  his  bread-stuffed  mouth  the  information 
that  his  "belly  was  scairt  most  stiff." 

Presently  the  boy's  plate  was  clean  to  shini- 
ness — polished  by  pieces  of  bread  with  which 
he  had  rubbed  up  the  last  blotch  of  grease,  the 
last  smear  of  yellow.  He  looked  over  at  the 
frying-pan  in  which  was  a  fifth  egg,  and  an  ex- 
tra strip  of  bacon.  David  caught  the  stare,  and 
quickly  turned  the  egg  and  bacon  into  the  boy's 
plate. 

The  boy  looked  from  the  plate  to  David. 
"You  don't  want  it?"  he  asked  fearfully. 

"No." 

He  waited  for  no  retraction.  A  few  minutes 
later,  after  having  finished  the  egg  and  meat 
and  the  remaining  slices  of  bread,  he  leaned  back 
with  a  profound  sigh,  and  steadily  regarded 
David. 

At  length  he  said,  abruptly:  "Me  name's 
Tom." 

"Thanks,"  said  David.  "What's  your  last 
name?" 

The  boy's  defiance  and  suspicion  had  fallen 


AN  UNINVITED  GUEST          95 

from  him.  " Jenks  I  calls  meself .  But  I  dunno. 
Me  old  man  had  a  lot  o'  names — Jones,  Sim- 
mons, Hall,  an'  some  I  forget.  He  changed 
'em  for  his  healt' — see  ?  So  I  ain't  wise  to  which 
me  real  name  is." 

Under  David's  questioning  he  became  com- 
municative about  his  history.  "You  had  to  be 
tough  meat  to  live  wid  me  old  man.  Me  mud- 
der  wasn't  built  to  stand  de  wear  and  tear,  an' 
about  de  time  I  was  foist  chased  off  to  school, 
she  went  out  o'  biz.  I  stayed  wid  me  old  man 
till  I  was  twelve.  He  hit  de  booze  hard,  an' 
kep'  himself  in  form  by  poundin'  me.  He  was 
hell.  Since  den  I  been  woikin'  for  meself." 

It  was  now  twelve  by  Kate  Morgan's  clock — 
an  hour  past  David's  bed-time.  "Where  do  you 
live?"  he  asked  Tom. 

"In  me  clo'es,"  Tom  answered,  grinning. 
David  found  himself  liking  that  grin,  which 
pulled  the  face  to  one  side  like  a  finger  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  mouth. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  stay  to-night?" 

"Been  askin'  meself  de  same  question."  He 
stood  up.  "But  I  guess  I'd  better  be  chasin' 
meself  so  you  can  git  to  bed." 

"Don't  go  just  yet,"  said  David.  He  looked 
at  his  narrow  bed,  then  looked  at  Tom.  "Sup- 
pose you  stay  with  me  to-night.  I  guess  we  can 
double  up  in  the  bed  there." 

Tom's  mouth  fell  agape.  "Me — sleep — in — 
your — bed?" 

"Of  course — why  not?" 

The  boy  sank  back  into  his  chair.  "Well,  say, 
you  are  a  queer  guy!"  he  burst  out.  He  stared 
at  David,  then  slowly  shook  his  head.  "I  won't 


96  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

do  it.  Anyhow,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  a  bed.  It'd 
keep  me  awake.  But  I'm  up  agin  it,  an'  I'll 
stay  if  you'll  let  me  sleep  on  de  floor." 

"But  there  are  no  extra  bed-clothes." 

"Wouldn't  want  'em  if  dere  was.  I'd  be  too 
hot." 

So  it  was  settled.  Ten  minutes  later  the  room 
was  dark,  David  was  in  bed,  and  Tom  was  lying 
in  the  space  between  the  bed's  foot  and  the  wall, 
with  David's  coat  for  extra  covering  and  with 
Browning's  poems  and  a  volume  of  Moliere  as 
a  pillow.  There  was  deep  silence  for  another 
ten  minutes,  then  a  cautious  whisper  rose  from 
the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"Are  you  asleep?" 

"No,"  said  David. 

"Say,  why  didn't  you  have  me  pinched?"  the 
voice  asked. 

No  answer. 

The  voice  rose  again.  "Why  did  you  gimme 
dat  extry  egg?" 

No  answer. 

"Why  did  you  ask  me  to  stay  here?  Ain't 
you  afraid  I'll  skin  out  wid  your  clo'es?" 

Again  there  was  no  answer.  But  presently 
David  said:  "Better  go  to  sleep,  Tom." 

There  was  a  brief,  deep  silence ;  then  once  more 
the  voice  came  from  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "I 
ain't  just  wise  to  you,"  said  the  voice,  and  there 
was  a  note  of  huskiness  in  it,  "but  say,  pard, 
you  gits  my  vote !" 


CHAPTER  V 

GUEST  TURNS  HOST 

THE  first  object  David's  eyes  fell  upon  when 
they  opened  the  next  morning  was  Tom,  sit- 
ting beside  the  bed,  a  look  of  waiting  eagerness 
on  his  pinched  face.  The  instant  he  saw  David 
was  awake  he  sprang  up,  and  David  perceived 
the  boy  had  on  one  pair  of  the  boxing-gloves. 

"Can  you  use  de  mitts?"  Tom  asked  excitedly. 

"A  little.  I  used  to,  that  is,"  David  answered, 
smiling  at  the  odd  figure  the  cow-lick,  the  eager 
face,  the  baggy  coat  and  the  big  boxing-gloves 
combined  to  make  of  the  boy. 

"Come  on,  den! — git  up!     Let's  have  a  go." 

David  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  while  he  was 
dressing  Tom  entertained  him  with  an  account 
of  the  Corbett-Britt  fight,  kinematograph  pic- 
tures of  which  he  had  seen  at  one  of  the  Bowery 
theatres.  Tom  danced  about  the  narrow  space 
between  the  bed  and  the  wall,  taking  the  part  of 
one  man,  then  of  the  other,  giving  blows  and  re- 
ceiving blows,  feinting,  ducking,  rushing  and  be- 
ing rushed  against  imaginary  ropes,  and  gasp- 
ing out  bits  of  description:  "Corbett  breaks  in 
an'  lands  like  dis — Jimmie  hands  back  dis  poke 
—Corbett  goes  groggy — dey  clinch — bing! 
bang  I  biff ! — Den  Jimmie  gits  in  dis  peach — Cor- 
bett kerplunks — one,  two,  free,  four,  five,  six, 

97 


98  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

seven,  eight,  nine,  ten — an'  Corbett's  a  has- 
been!" 

By  this  time  David  was  half -dressed,  and  had 
drawn  on  the  other  pair  of  gloves.  They  gravely 
shook  hands  and  drew  apart.  "Be  careful,  and 
don't  make  me  a  has-been,"  David  cautioned. 

"Oh,  mudder!  Fetch  me  a  step-ladder!"  be- 
sought Tom,  looking  upward  at  David's  head. 
He  spat  from  one  side  of  his  mouth,  drew  his 
head  down  between  his  shoulders,  rushed  in,  and 
began  directing  a  fury  of  blows  at  David's  stom- 
ach, which  was  near  the  level  of  his  fists;  and  it 
took  all  David's  long-rusted,  but  one-time  con- 
siderable, skill  to  ward  off  the  rapid  fists.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  get  in  a  blow  himself,  and 
this  soon  drew  on  him  Tom's  wrath. 

"I  ain't  no  baby!"  the  boy  yelled  in  disgust. 
"Punch  me!" 

David  proceeded  to  land  a  few  light  touches 
about  the  slender  body. 

"A-a-h,  punch  me!"  Tom  gasped.     "Harder!" 

David  obeyed,  and  landed  a  chest  blow  that 
sent  Tom  to  his  back.  David  dropped  to  his 
knees  beside  him,  alarmed,  for  the  boy's  face  was 
white  and  dazed.  But  Tom  rose  to  an  elbow 
and  pushed  David  away.  His  lips  moved  si- 
lently, then  with  sound:  "Seven,  eight,  nine, 
ten."  At  "ten"  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed 
at  David  again. 

But  David  threw  up  his  hands.  "That's 
enough  for  to-day.  And  finish  fights  are 
against  the  New  York  law." 

Tom  grumblingly  drew  off  the  gloves.  After 
their  breakfast  of  bread  and  coffee  David  asked 
him  what  he  was  going  to  do  that  day. 


99 

"Look  for  odd  jobs." 

"Where  will  you  stay  to-night?'* 

"Dunno." 

"How  did  you  like  the  floor?" 

"Bully!" 

"Well,  suppose  you  come  back  and  try  it  again 
to-night.  Be  here  at  six.  Will  you?" 

"Will  I !"  gasped  the  boy.  "You  can  just  bet 
your  gran'mudder's  suspenders  dat  I  will!" 

When  David  returned  at  six,  after  another 
day  of  hopeless  search,  he  found  Tom  sitting  in 
the  doorway  of  the  tenement.  The  boy's  face 
lighted  up  with  his  lop-sided  smile;  David  felt  a 
quick  glow  at  having  someone  to  give  him  a 
welcoming  look — even  though  that  someone  were 
only  a  ragged,  stunted  boy  in  an  old  slouch  hat 
that  from  time  to  time  slipped  down  and  eclipsed 
the  sharp  face. 

They  had  dinner,  and  after  it  they  set  forth 
on  a  walk.  David  left  the  guidance  to  Tom, 
and  the  boy  led  the  way  down  the  Bowery, 
where,  to  the  hellish  music  of  elevated  trains, 
and  by  the  garish  light  that  streamed  from  res- 
taurants, pawnshops,  music-halls  and  saloons, 
moved  the  all-night  procession  of  thieves  and 
thugs,  cheap  sports  and  cheap  confidence  men, 
gutter-rags  of  men  and  women,  girls  whose  bold, 
roving  eyes  sought  markets  for  their  charms — 
all  those  whom  we  of  sheltered  morals  are  wont 
to  consider  the  devil's  irretrievable  share,  with- 
out thinking  much,  or  caring  much,  as  to  why 
they  should  be  his.  Tom's  tongue  maintained 
a  constant  commentary  on  everything  they 
passed;  to  talk  was  clearly  one  of  his  delights. 
What  he  said  was  interesting,  and  was  given  a 


100          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

grotesque  vivacity  by  his  snappy  diction  of  the 
streets;  but  David  shivered  again  and  again  at 
the  knowledge  he  had  where  he  should  have  had 
ignorance. 

The  boy  was  erudite  in  the  wickedness  of  this 
part  of  the  city.  That  innocent-looking  second- 
hand store,  which  was  run  by  the  fat  old  woman 
in  the  doorway,  was  in  reality  a  "fence;"  that 
laundry  was  an  opium  den;  in  the  back  of  that 
brilliantly-lighted  club-room,  whose  windows 
were  labelled  "The  Three  Friends'  Association," 
there  was  a  gambling  joint;  that  saloon  was  the 
hang-out  of  a  gang  of  men  and  women  thieves ; 
in  that  music  hall,  through  whose  open  door  they 
glimpsed  a  dancer  in  a  red  knee-skirt  doing  the 
high  kick,  the  girls  got  their  brief  admirers 
drunk  and  picked  their  pockets ; — and  so  on,  and 
on,  missing  nothing  that  he  should  not  have 
known. 

At  Chatham  Square  they  turned  into  the  Jew- 
ish quarter  and  shouldered  homeward  through 
narrow  streets  that  from  wall  to  wall  were  a 
distracting  entanglement  of  playing  children, 
baby  carriages,  families  on  doorsteps,  promenad- 
ing lovers,  hurrying  men,  arguing  groups,  flam- 
beau-lighted pushcarts  whose  bent  and  bearded 
proprietors  offered  the  chaotic  crowd  every  com- 
modity from  cucumbers  to  clothes.  The  latter 
part  of  their  walk  took  them  by  St.  Christo- 
pher's, through  the  glowing  colours  of  the  Mor- 
ton memorial  window;  and  the  Mission  came  in 
for  a  few  of  Tom's  sentences.  It  was  a  great 
place  to  steal  women's  pocketbooks.  "A  lot  o' 
swell  ladies  from  Fif t'  Avenoo  comes  down  dere 
to  monkey  wid  de  kids — hell  knows  what  for. 


GUEST  TURNS  HOST  101 

Dere  easy  fruit.  I  pinched  two  or  free  fat 
leathers  dere  meself." 

David  marvelled  at  the  boy's  intimacy  with 
wickedness,  yet  he  understood  it.  Evil  was  the 
one  thing  Tom  had  had  a  chance  to  become  ac- 
quainted with;  it  had  for  him  the  familiar  face 
that  virtue  has  for  children  raised  amid  happier 
circumstances.  The  conditions  of  its  childhood, 
whether  good  or  bad,  are  the  normal  conditions 
of  life  to  the  child.  So  to  Tom  wickedness  was 
normal;  he  talked  of  stealing,  of  gambling,  of 
women,  with  the  natural  vivacity  that  another 
boy  might  have  talked  of  his  marbles. 

David  saw,  as  definitely  as  the  calendar  sees 
to-morrow,  the  future  of  this  boy  if  there  were 
no  influence  counter  to  the  influence  that  was 
now  sweeping  him  toward  his  fate.  He  saw 
arrest  (Tom  had  boasted  that  he  had  been  ar- 
rested once) — prison — a  hardening  of  the  boy's 
nature — a  life  of  crime.  He  heard  little  of  the 
rest  of  the  boy's  chatter,  and  presently  he  came 
to  a  decision — a  very  unpretentious  decision, 
for  he  was  poorer  than  poverty,  and  what  con- 
fidence he  once  had  in  his  personal  influence  had 
slipped  away.  But  the  little  he  could  do  for 
the  boy,  that  he  would  do. 

"How  wrould  you  like  to  stay  with  me  for 
awhile,  Tom?"  he  asked  when  they  were  back  in 
his  room.  "I  can't  offer  you  anything  but  the 
floor  for  a  bed — and  perhaps  not  that  after  a 
few  weeks." 

"D'you  mean  I  can  stay  wid  you?"  Tom  cried, 
springing  up,  his  eyes  a-gleam.  "Say,  dat'll  be 
great!  We'll  divide  on  de  price!  An'  we'll 
have  a  little  go  wid  de  mitts  ev'ry  day!" 


102          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Very  well.  But  I  want  to  place  one  condi- 
tion on  your  staying.  You're  to  be  strictly  hon- 
est with  me,  and  you're  not  to  steal.  You  un- 
derstand?" 

The  boy  made  a  grimace.  "All  right — since 
you  ask  me.  But  say,  you're  queer!" 

The  next  morning  David  bought  Tom  a  red 
cotton  sweater  and  advanced  him  a  quarter  with 
which  to  buy  a  stock  of  papers.  Two  weeks 
passed,  every  day  very  much  like  the  one  be- 
fore it.  David  found  no  work,  and  Tom  made 
but  little.  During  the  two  weeks  the  rent  fell 
due,  and  most  of  David's  library  went  to  a 
second-hand  book  dealer  and  the  proceeds  went 
to  the  landlady.  Then,  two  or  three  at  a  time, 
the  rest  of  the  books  were  carried  to  the  second- 
hand store. 

At  length  there  came  a  morning  when  there 
was  not  a  cent,  and  when,  to  perfect  the  day's 
despair,  David  woke  with  a  burning  soreness 
throughout  his  body — the  consequence  of  having 
been  caught  the  day  before  in  a  cold  rain  and 
having  walked  for  several  hours  in  his  wet  clothes. 
He  crawled  out  of  bed,  but  soon  crept  in  again. 
His  muscles  could  make  no  search  for  work  that 
day. 

Tom  proposed  a  doctor.  David  dismissed 
the  suggestion;  doctors  required  money.  But, 
money  or  no  money,  Tom  saw  there  had  to  be 
one  thing — food.  He  sat  gazing  for  several 
minutes  at  the  boxing-gloves,  their  last  nego- 
tiable possession,  which  his  favour  had  thus  far 
kept  out  of  the  pawnshop;  then  with  a  set  face 
he  put  them  under  his  arm  and  walked  out  of 
the  room.  He  returned  with  fifty  cents. 


GUEST  TURNS  HOST  103 

That  night  Tom  came  home  discouraged. 
He  had  hunted  work  all  day,  but  no  one  wanted 
him.  "Dey  all  wanted  to  hire  a  good  suit  o' 
clo'es,"  he  explained  to  David.  But  the  next 
morning  he  seemed  confident.  "I  t'ought  of  a 
place  where  I  t'ink  I  can  git  a  job,"  he  said,  as 
he  started  away  after  having  prepared  for  David 
a  breakfast  that  David's  feverish  lips  could  not 
touch. 

His  confidence  was  well  founded,  for  that 
evening  he  entered  the  room  with  an  arm-load 
of  bundles.  "Look  at  dis,  will  you!"  he  cried, 
dropping  the  parcels  on  the  bed.  "Bread,  an' 
butter,  an'  eggs,  an'  steak — ev'ryt'ing.  You  got 
to  git  well,  now!  You're  goin'  to  git  fat!" 

David  in  his  surprise  sat  up  in  bed.  "Why, 
where  did  you  get  all  those  things?" 

"Didn't  I  say  I'd  git  a  job?  Well,  I  did! 
In  a  big  hardware  store.  I'm  errand  boy — 
ev'ryt'ing!  De  boss  say,  'Tom  do  dis;  Tom  do 
dat.'  I  do  'em  all,  quick!  De  next  minute  I 
say  to  de  boss,  'anyt'ing  else?'  He  pays  me  six 
a  week,  I'm  so  quick." 

"But  you've  only  worked  a  day.  You  haven't 
been  paid  already?" 

"Sure.  I  hands  de  boss  a  piece  o'  talk:  me 
mudder's  sick,  an'  I  needs  ready  coin  bad.  So 
he  pays  me  a  dollar  ev'ry  day." 

David  made  a  mental  note  that  later  there 
must  be  a  few  more  remarks  on  the  subject  of 
lying ;  but  this  was  not  the  time  to  reprove  Tom's 
fib.  He  took  the  boy's  hand  in  his  hot,  weak 
grasp.  "You're  mighty  good  to  me,  Tom,"  he 
said,  huskily. 

Tom's  face  slipped  to  one  side  and  twitched. 


104  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

His  blinking  eyes  avoided  David's  gaze.  "Oh, 
dat's  nuttin',"  he  gruffly  returned.  "Nobody 
goes  back  on  his  pal." 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  David's  ill- 
ness Kate  Morgan  returned  home,  having  given 
up  her  position,  and  thenceforward  she  prepared 
most  of  his  meals,  chatted  much  with  him,  and 
lent  him  ten-cent  novels.  One  result  of  their 
chats  was  that  Kate  became  strengthened  in  her 
conviction  that  David  had  been  a  thief  of  great 
skill  and  daring.  Contradiction  availed  him 
nothing.  "Your  last  haul  was  a  big  one — you 
told  me  so  yourself,"  she  would  say.  "And  only 
the  top-notchers  have  your  kind  of  talk  and  man- 
ners." 

One  day  she  returned  to  the  matter  of  her 
former  prophecy.  "You've  had  enough  of 
this,"  she  said.  "When  you  get  out  of  bed,  and 
get  your  strength  back,  you'll  be  at  the  old  game 
again.  You  see!" 

During  this  time  Tom  left  for  work  regularly 
at  half -past  seven,  and  returned  regularly  at 
half -past  six;  and  each  evening  he  insisted  on 
turning  his  dollar  in  to  David,  to  be  spent  un- 
der David's  direction.  One  night,  as  Tom  was 
giving  frightful  punishment  to  an  imaginary 
opponent  with  the  boxing  gloves — he  had  re- 
deemed them  with  part  of  his  second  day's  pay 
— several  coins  slipped  from  his  pocket  and  went 
ringing  upon  the  floor.  When  Tom  rose  from 
picking  them  up  David's  thin  face  was  gazing 
at  him  in  sorrowful  accusation.  The  boy  paled 
before  the  look.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  asked  mechanically,  almost  without 
breath:  "What's  de  matter?" 


GUEST  TURNS  HOST  105 

"Haven't  you  been  stealing  from  your  em- 
ployers?" David  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

The  boy's  colour  came  back.  "No  I  ain't. 
Honest." 

"Then  where  did  you  get  that  money?" 

"Why — why,  Kate  Morgan  give  it  to  me. 
She  fought  I  might  want  to  buy  a  few  extry 
t'ings." 

David  was  unconvinced,  but  from  principle 
he  gave  Tom  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  He  had 
the  instinctive  masculine  repugnance  to  accept- 
ing money  from  a  woman;  so  a  moment  later, 
when  Kate  came  in,  he  said  to  her:  "I  want  to 
thank  for  you  for  loaning  that  money  to  Tom. 
I  understand  and  appreciate — but  I  don't  need 
the  money.  You  must  take  it  back." 

"What  money?"  she  asked  blankly. 

She  turned  about  on  Tom,  who  was  sitting  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  where  David  could  not  see 
him.  The  boy's  face  wTas  very  white,  and  he  was 
hardly  breathing.  He  looked  appealingly  at 
her. 

Kate's  face  darkened.  "Tom,"  she  said 
sharply,  "I  told  you  not  to  tell  that!" 

When  she  had  gone,  David  called  Tom  to  him 
and  took  his  hand.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Tom," 
he  said. 

Tom  made  no  answer  at  all. 

All  these  days,  when  David  was  not  chatting 
with  Kate,  or  reading  about  the  love  of  the  fair 
mill-girl  and  the  mill-owner's  son,  he  was  wanly 
staring  into  his  future.  He  longed  for  the  day 
when  he  could  begin  search  again — and  that  day 
was  also  his  great  fear.  Often  he  lay  thinking 
for  hours  of  Helen  Chambers.  He  thought  of 


106          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

the  lovers  she  must  have;  of  her  marriage  that 
might  not  be  far  off;  of  the  noble  place  she 
would  have  in  life — honoured,  admired,  a  doer 
of  good.  He  would  never  meet  her,  never  speak 
to  her — never  see  her,  save  perhaps  as  he  had 
been  doing,  from  places  of  shadow. 

Well    ...    he  prayed  that  she  might  be 
happy! 


CHAPTER  VI 

TOM  IS  SEEN  AT  WORK 

IT  was  toward  four  o'clock  of  the  day  be- 
fore Thanksgiving — an  afternoon  of  genial 
crispness.  The  low-hung  sun,  visible  in  the 
tenement  districts  only  in  westward  streets,  was 
softened  to  a  ruddy  disk  by  the  light  November 
haze.  Before  the  entrance  to  the  club-house  of 
the  Mission  were  massed  two  or  three  hundred 
children.  Here  was  childhood's  every  size;  and 
here  were  rags  and  dirt — well-worn  and  well- 
mended  decency — the  cheap  finery  of  poverty's 
aristocracy.  There  was  much  pushing  and  el- 
bowing in  a  struggle  to  hold  place  or  to  gain 
nearer  the  entrance,  and  the  elbowed  and  elbow- 
ing pelted  each  other  with  high-keyed  words. 
But,  on  the  whole,  theirs  was  a  holiday  mood; 
the  faces,  lighted  by  the  red  sunlight  that  flowed 
eastward  through  the  deep  street,  were  eagerly 
expectant. 

Across  the  way  stood  a  boy,  near  the  size  of 
the  largest  children  in  the  crowd.  He  wore  a  red 
sweater,  and  his  hands  were  thrust  into  the 
pockets  of  baggy  trousers  voluminously  rolled 
up  at  the  bottom.  He  was  watching  the  ner- 
vous group,  with  curiosity  and  a  species  of 
crafty  meditation  in  his  gleaming,  black-browed 
eyes.  It  was  Tom.  Had  David  seen  him  there, 
he  might  have  thought  the  boy  had  paused  for 

107 


108  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

a  moment  while  out  on  an  errand  for  his  em- 
ployer; but  if  Tom  was  on  an  errand  it  was 
evidently  not  one  of  driving  importance,  for  he 
remained  standing  in  his  place  minute  after 
minute. 

Presently  he  crossed  the  street  and  drew  up  to 
a  be-shawled  girl  whose  black  stockings  were 
patched  with  white  skin.  He  gave  her  a  light 
jab  with  his  elbow.  "Hey,  sister — what's  de 
row?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  to  him  a  thin  face  that  ordinarily 
must  have  been  listless,  but  that  was  now  quick- 
ened by  excitement.  "It's  the  children's 
Thanksgiving  party,"  she  explained. 

"What  you  wearin'  out  de  pavement  for? 
iWhy  don't  you  go  in?" 

"It  ain't  time  for  the  doors  to  open  yet." 

Tom  fell  back  and  stood  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd,  occasionally  sliding  the  tip  of  his  tongue 
through  the  long  groove  of  his  mouth,  the  same 
meditative  look  upon  his  watchful  face.  Soon 
the  door  swung  open  and  the  crowd  surged  for- 
ward, to  be  halted  by  a  low,  ringing  voice: 
"Come,  children !— please  let's  all  get  into  line 
first,  and  march  in  orderly." 

Two  middle-aged  women,  enclosed  in  a  sub- 
dued air  of  wealth,  appeared  through  the  door, 
and  marched  down  the  three  steps  and  among 
the  children.  The  boy's  eyes  closed  to  bright 
slits,  his  lips  drew  back  from  his  teeth.  The 
next  instant  a  third  woman  appeared  at  the  top 
of  the  steps — young,  tall,  fresh-looking,  grace- 
fully dignified. 

"Ain't  she  a  queen  1"  Tom  ejaculated  to  him- 
self. 


TOM  IS  SEEN  AT  WORK        109 

She  paused  a  moment  and  bent  over  to  speak 
to  a  child,  and  the  boy  discovered  that  the  rich, 
low-pitched  voice  he  had  heard  was  hers.  As 
she  stood  so,  the  front  of  her  tailored  coat 
swung  open,  and  the  boy  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  silver-mounted  bag,  hooked  with  a  silver  clasp 
to  her  belt.  A  brighter  gleam  sprang  into  his 
eyes. 

She  came  down  the  steps,  pushed  in  among  the 
children,  and  with  the  two  other  women  began 
to  form  the  group  into  a  double  line.  Tom, 
with  quick-squirming  movements,  edged 
through  to  the  inner  circle  of  the  excited  crowd, 
in  which  she  was  tightly  buried  up  to  her 
shoulders.  At  intervals  he  gave  sharp  upward 
glances  at  her  face;  she  was  entirely  absorbed 
in  making  ordered  lines  of  this  entanglement. 
The  rest  of  the  time  his  eyes  were  fastened  on 
her  belt.  Presently  the  children  were  thrown 
turbulently  about  her  by  one  of  those  waves  of 
motion  that  sweep  through  crowds,  and  he  man- 
aged to  be  pressed  against  her,  the  left  side  of 
his  coat  held  open  to  shield  off  possible  eyes. 
His  right  hand  crept  deftly  forward  under  her 
coat — found  the  bag — loosened  it. 

But  suddenly  a  child's  shoulder  was  jammed 
against  his  closed  hand,  driving  it  against  the 
young  woman's  side,  and  for  an  instant  holding 
it  captive.  She  glanced  down  and  saw  Tom's 
arm.  Instantly  her  firm  grasp  closed  about  the 
wrist  and  jerked  out  the  hand,  which  dropped 
the  bag.  Like  a  flash  Tom  delivered  a  blow 
upon  her  wrist.  She  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  pain, 
but  her  grip  did  not  break.  As  he  struck  again 
she  caught  him  about  the  wrist  with  her  free 


110  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

hand.  He  jerked  and  twisted  violently,  but  her 
hands  had  a  firm,  out-of-doors  strength.  He 
was  prisoner. 

Startled  cries  of  "Pick-pocket!"  and  "Get 
a  cop!"  sprang  up  in  the  shrill  voices  of  the 
children.  The  young  woman,  very  pale  but 
composed,  looked  sternly  down  at  Tom. 

"So,  young  man,  I've  caught  you  in  the  very 
act,"  she  said  slowly. 

He  looked  sullenly  at  the  pavement. 

"What  shaU  I  do  with  you?" 

Tom  raised  his  shoulders.  "Dat's  your  biz," 
he  answered  gruffly. 

"Arrest  him!"  "They've  gone  for  a  police- 
man!" shouted  the  childish  voices. 

At  this  the  boy  sent  up  a  quick  glance  at  the 
young  woman.  Despite  its  severity,  kindness 
was  in  her  face.  He  dropped  his  head,  the  sul- 
lenness  seemed  to  go  out  of  him,  and  his  body 
began  to  tremble.  The  next  instant  his  sleeve 
was  against  his  face  and  he  was  blubbering. 

"I  couldn't  help  it!"  he  sobbed. 

"You  couldn't  help  it!"  she  exclaimed. 

"No!  It  was  because  o'  me  brudder.  I've 
never  stole  before.  Honest,  lady.  But  me 
poor  brudder's  been  sick  for  free  mont's.  I 
tried  to  find  a  job.  I  can't  find  none.  Our 
money's  all  gone,  an'  dere  ain't  no  one  but  me. 
What  can  I  do,  lady?" 

The  young  woman  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly.  One  of  Tom's  sharp  eyes  peeped  up  at 
her,  and  saw  sympathy  struggling  with  unbe- 
lief. His  blubbering  increased.  "It's  de  God's 
tmt',  lady!  You  can  send  me  to  hell,  if  it  ain't. 
Me  brudder's  sick — dere's  nuttin'  to  eat,  an'  no 


TOM  IS  SEEN  AT  WORK        111 

medicine,  an'  nobody'd  gimme  work.  So  help 
me  God!" 

At  this  instant  the  cry  rose,  "Here's  the  police- 
man!" and  almost  at  once  the  officer,  pressing 
through  the  alley  that  opened  among  the  chil- 
dren, had  his  hand  on  Tom's  collar.  "So  you 
was  caught  with  the  goods  on,"  he  cried,  giving 
the  boy  a  rough  shake.  "Well,  you  chase  along 
with  me!  Come  along,  lady.  It's  only  two 
blocks  to  the  station." 

He  jerked  Tom  forward  and  started  away. 
But  the  young  woman,  who  still  held  one  of 
Tom's  wrists,  did  not  move.  "Will  you  wait, 
please?"  she  said  quietly,  a  flash  in  her  brown 
eyes.  "What  right  have  you  to  touch  this  boy?" 

"Why,  didn't  he  nab  your  pocket-book?" 

"I'm  not  saying,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
very  steadily.  "You  can  arrest  him  only  on 
complaint.  I  am  the  only  one  who  can  make  a 
complaint.  And  I  make  none.  Please  let  go!" 

The  policeman  stared,  but  his  hand  dropped 
from  Tom's  collar. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

She  called  one  of  the  women  to  her  side. 
"You  can  easily  get  on  without  me,  Mrs.  Hart- 
well,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "The  most  im- 
portant thing  for  me  is  to  look  into  this  boy's 
case.  I'm  going  to  have  him  take  me  to  his 
brother — if  there  is  a  brother." 

Tom  overheard  the  last  sentence.  His  face 
paled.  "Please  don't  take  me  to  me  brudder," 
he  begged,  a  new  ring  in  his  voice.  "He  t'inks 
I'm  honest.  He'll  t'row  me  out  when  you  tell 
him!  Don't  take  me.  What's  de  use?  I  told 
you  de  trut'." 


112  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"If  there  is  a  brother,  I  want  to  talk  with 
him,"  she  answered.  She  requested  the  police- 
man to  follow  at  a  distance,  and  then  asked  Tom 
to  lead  them  to  his  home. 

"An*  see  that  you  take  us  to  the  right  place, 
too,"  said  the  officer,  with  a  warning  look.  "An' 
don't  try  to  get  away,  for  I'll  be  watchin'  you." 

They  started  off.  The  young  woman  did  not 
take  Tom's  arm,  for  the  same  reason  that  she 
asked  the  policeman  to  follow  several  yards  be- 
hind— that  there  might  be  no  apparent  capture, 
and  no  curious  trailing  crowd. 

Tom's  body  palpitated  with  the  dread  of  fac- 
ing David — of  what  David  would  say  to  him, 
of  the  way  David  would  look  at  him,  but  most  of 
all  of  the  change  in  David  s  attitude  toward  him, 
when  these  accusers  should  make  plain  to  David 
that  for  two  weeks  he  had  been  lying  and  steal- 
ing. He  thought  of  escape — to  get  away  from 
this  young  woman  would  be  an  easy  matter;  but 
a  glance  at  the  officer  behind  assured  him  that  to 
try  would  mean  merely  the  exchange  of  a  kind 
captor  for  a  harsh  one.  He  preferred  his 
chances  with  the  young  woman.  So  he  led  them 
on,  his  dread  swelling  with  every  step  that 
brought  them  nearer  to  David. 

The  policeman  was  left  waiting  at  the  tene- 
ment entrance.  Tom  guided  the  young  woman 
to  his  door,  paused  chokingly  there,  then  led  her 
into  the  little,  dingy  room,  which  was  filled  with 
a  deeper  hue  of  the  coming  twilight.  David 
was  lying  in  a  doze,  his  face  turned  upward. 

She  glanced  at  the  bed,  saw  only  that  a  man 
was  sleeping  there,  then  glanced  about.  The 
poverty  of  the  room  and  the  sick  figure  con- 


TOM  IS  SEEN  AT  WORK       113 

i 

firmed  Tom's  story.  She  put  a  gentle  hand  on 
the  boy's  shoulder.  "Please  waken  your 
brother,"  she  whispered. 

She  stepped  nearer  the  bed,  but  Tom  hung 
fearfully  back.  And  now  she  saw  for  the  first 
time  David's  face  with  some  distinctness.  She 
started — bent  over  him — stared  down  at  the  face 
on  the  pillow.  She  trembled  backward  a  pace. 
One  hand  reached  out  and  caught  a  chair. 

Tom,  seeing  his  chance  to  escape,  slipped  out 
and  took  refuge  in  the  Morgan's  flat.  The  clos- 
ing door  roused  David  from  his  light  sleep.  He 
slowly  opened  his  eyes — opened  them  upon  the 
white  face  looking  down  upon  him.  The  face 
seemed  unreal,  merely  the  face  in  a  frequent 
dream.  He  closed  his  eyes,  then  opened  them. 
The  face  was  still  there.  ...  A  great, 
wild,  dizzy  thrill  went  through  him. 

Slowly  his  haggard  face  rose  from  the  pillow 
and  he  rested  upon  his  elbow.  "Miss  Cham- 
bers!" he  whispered,  at  length. 

For  moments  she  could  only  stare  back  at  him 
— the  friend  once  admired,  who  by  his  own  con- 
fession had  stolen  the  money  of  tenement 
children,  had  gambled  it  away,  had  counted  on 
the  guilt  falling  upon  Morton.  Then  her  voice, 
straining  at  steadiness,  came  out,  and  haltingly 
spoke  the  nearest  thing  that  did  not  require 
thought — an  explanation  of  her  presence. 

Her  words  hardly  reached  his  mind.  There 
was  only  one  thing,  the  dizzy,  impossible  fact — 
she  was  before  him!  His  body  was  chill,  fire; 
his  mind  was  chaos. 

"You  have  been  sick  long?"  she  asked. 

He  took  control  of  himself  by  a  supreme  ef- 


114          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

fort.  "For  two  weeks.  It's  nothing — just  the 
grip." 

"The  boy  told  me  for  three  months." 

"That's  just  an  invention  of  Tom's."  He 
was  conscious  that,  at  his  words,  a  look  of  doubt 
flitted  across  her  face. 

She  had  wondered,  as  he  had  done,  what  her 
attitude  toward  him  should  be,  if  chance  ever 
brought  them  together — what  it  should  be  if  he 
were  striving  to  live  honorably — what,  if  he  had 
slipped  down  and  were  living  by  thievery.  At 
this  moment,  without  conscious  thought,  her  at- 
titude was  established.  But,  though  decision 
was  against  him,  he  was  helpless,  in  need. 

"Is  there  anything  at  all  that  I  can  do  for 
you?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  If  there  was  one  person 
above  all  others  from  whom  he  could  not  accept 
service,  that  person  was  the  woman  he  loved  and 
who,  he  was  certain,  beneath  her  courteous  con- 
trol, must  despise  him.  He  had  always  known 
she  believed  him  guilty,  yet  he  had  not  half  fore- 
measured  the  pain  the  eye-knowledge  of  it  would 
give  him.  He  longed  to  tell  her  the  truth,  as 
he  often  had  longed  before,  and  as  he  often 
would  again — but  he  dared  not,  for  to  tell  one 
person  was  to  endanger,  perhaps  destroy,  all  the 
good  of  his  act.  Besides,  even  if  he  were  to 
tell,  who  would  believe  him?  She?  No.  She 
would  believe,  as  the  rest  of  the  world  would  be- 
lieve, that  his  statement  was  a  dastardly  attempt 
to  whiten  himself  by  blackening  the  memory  of 
his  sainted  friend. 

"You  are  certain  I  can  do  nothing?" 


TOM  IS  SEEN  AT  WORK       115 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

"Pardon  me  for  being  insistent,  but — "  she 

hesitated,  white  with  the  stress  of  the  situation, 

then  forced  herself  to  go  on — "the  boy  said  that 

—that  you  had — nothing.    Are  you  sure  I  can 

not  do  some  little  thing  for  you?" 

At  this  moment  David  forgot  that  he  was  pen- 
niless, forgot  that  he  had  no  work  for  the  time 
when  he  left  his  bed,  and  probably  could  find 
none;  remembered  only  how  he  loved  this 
woman,  and  how  low  he  was  in  her  eyes. 

"The  boy  was  not  telling  the  truth,"  he  said. 
"We  have  plenty.  We  need  nothing — thank 
you." 

She  could  not  speak  of  the  past;  her  delicacy 
forbade  her.  She  could  not  query  into  his 
present  intentions;  her  judgment  on  him,  sub- 
consciously rendered  upon  circumstantial  evi- 
dence, and  supported  by  his  past,  made  that  un- 
necessary. And,  furthermore,  the  whirling  con- 
fusion within  her  made  speech  on  both  impos- 
sible. The  one  surface  fact  her  emotions  could 
allow  her  speech  upon,  that  she  had  spoken  of. 
She  felt  she  must  get  away  as  quickly  as  she 
could. 

She  rose.  His  wide,  love-hungry  eyes  gath- 
ered in  every  one  of  her  last  motions  and  ex- 
pressions. He  did  not  know  when,  if  ever,  he 
would  see  her  again. 

There  was  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  was  not  ex- 
pecting this,  but  he  laid  his  wasted  hand  trem- 
blingly within  it. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said. 


116          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Impulsively  his  soul  reached  out  for  some 
shred  of  her  regard.  "I'm  trying  to  live  honest 
now  I"  he  burst  out,  in  subdued  agony. 

She  regarded  him  an  instant.  "I'm  glad  of 
it,"  she  said  quietly. 

The  sharp  knock  sounded  once  more. 

"Good-bye,"  she  repeated. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  in  a  dry  whisper. 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  his  love-hungry 
eyes  gathering  in  the  last  of  her.  .  .  .  Yes, 
he  was  utterly  beyond  the  pale. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  NEW  ITEM  IN  THE  BILL  OF  SCOEN 

BUT  before  Helen's  hand  reached  the  knob, 
the  door  opened  gently,  pushing  her  to  one 
side.  Kate  Morgan's  head  slipped  cautiously 
in,  and  was  followed  at  once  by  the  rest  of  her 
body  when  she  saw  that  David  was  awake. 

"I  didn't  hear  an  answer,  so  I  thought  you 
must  be  asleep,"  she  said.  "I  looked  in  to  see 
if  I  couldn't  do  something." 

The  same  instant  her  eyes  fell  upon  Helen. 
"Oh  I"  she  said  sharply,  and  her  glance,  as  quick 
as  a  snap-shot  camera,  took  in  every  detail  of 
Helen's  appearance,  and  besides  read  Helen's 
character  and  her  approximate  position  in  the 
world.  "I  thought  you  were  alone,"  she  said  to 
David. 

"Miss  Chambers  was  just  going,"  he  returned. 
He  heavily  introduced  the  two.  Kate  acknowl- 
edged the  introduction  with  a  little  bow  and  a 
"pleased  to  meet  you,"  and  turned  upon  David 
a  rapid,  suspicious  look,  which  demanded,  "How 
do  you  come  to  know  a  woman  of  this  kind?" 

"As  Mr.  Aldrich  said,  I  was  just  going," 
Helen  remarked,  reaching  again  for  the  door- 
knob. "So  I  wish  you  good  afternoon." 

If  David's  wits  had  been  about  him,  he  would 
have  seen  the  flash  of  sudden  purpose  in  Kate's 

117 


118  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

face.  "You're  sure  I  can't  do  anything?"  she 
asked  quickly. 

"Nothing,"  he  returned. 

She  turned  to  Helen,  her  manner  hesitating, 
and  in  it  a  touch  of  humility — the  manner  of  one 
who  is  presuming  greatly  and  knows  she  is  pre- 
sumptuous. Had  David  been  observant  at  this 
instant,  he  could  have  understood  a  thing  over 
which  he  had  often  wondered — how  this  aggres- 
sive personality  could  hold  positions  where  ser- 
vility was  the  first  requisite. 

"I  was  just  going  out  too,"  she  said  with  a 
little  appealing  smile.  "If  you  don't  mind,  I'll 
—I'll  walk  with  you." 

Helen  could  not  do  other  than  acquiesce,  and 
Kate  hurried  from  the  room  with,  "I'll  put  on 
my  hat  and  meet  you  in  the  hall  in  just  a 
second." 

Helen  looked  again  upon  David,  and  again  he 
felt,  beneath  her  perfect  courtesy,  an  infinite, 
sorrowful  disdain.  "Good-bye  once  more,"  she 
said;  and  the  next  instant  the  door  had  closed 
upon  her. 

David  gazed  at  the  door  in  wide-eyed  stupor 
.  .  .  and  gazed  .  .  .  and  gazed.  He 
had  hardly  moved,  when,  half  an  hour  later, 
Kate  Morgan  re-entered.  The  humble  bearing 
of  her  exit  was  gone.  She  was  her  usual  sharp, 
free-and-easy  self,  and  she  had  a  keen  little  air 
of  success. 

"That  Miss  Chambers  is  one  of  the  swells, 
ain't  she?"  she  asked,  dropping  into  the  chair  and 
crossing  her  knees. 

David  admitted  that  she  was. 

"I  sized  her  up  that  way  the  first  second.     I 


A  NEW  ITEM  119 

walked  with  her  to  a  church-looking  place,  and 
told  her  a  lot  about  myself — a  maid,  out  of  work 
and  looking  for  a  job,  you  know."  She  gave 
David  a  sly  wink.  "She  didn't  say  much  her- 
self, and  didn't  seem  to  hear  all  I  said.  She's 
got  some  kind  of  a  club  over  at  that  church  place 
and  she  asked  me  to  visit  the  club,  and  said  per- 
haps later  I  might  care  to  join.  And  she 
promised  to  see  if  some  of  her  friends  didn't 
need  a  maid." 

Her  keen  little  smile  of  triumph  returned,  and 
she  added  softly,  "Jobs  in  swell  houses  ain't  so 
easy  to  pick  up." 

"See  here!"  said  David  sharply,  "are  you  plan- 
ning a  trick  on  one  of  Miss  Chambers's  friends?" 

Instantly  her  face  was  guileless.  "Oh,  she'll 
forget  all  about  me,"  she  said  easily.  "But  see 
here  yourself!  How  do  you  happen  to  know  a 
woman  of  her  sort?  She  told  me  how  Tom 
brought  her  up  here" — she  smiled  at  memory  of 
the  story — "but  you  must  have  known  her  be- 
fore?" 

David  had  foreseen  the  question,  and  his  wits 
had  made  ready  an  answer — for  to  bare  to 
Kate's  inquisitive  mind  the  truth  of  his  one-time 
friendship  with  Helen,  this  for  a  score  of  reasons 
he  could  not  do.  "She's  one  of  these  philan- 
thropic women.  She's  interested  in  all  sorts  of 
queer  people.  I'm  one  of  them.  She's  tried  to 
reform  me." 

If  Kate  discredited  his  explanation  she  did 
not  show  her  unbelief.  She  went  on  to  question 
him  about  Helen  and  his  acquaintance  writh  her, 
and  it  was  a  terrific  strain  on  his  invention  to 
return  plausible  answers.  He  prayed  that  she 


120          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

would  go,  or  stop,  and  when  Tom  crept  fearfully 
in  a  few  minutes  later,  his  arms  full  of  bundles, 
the  boy's  appearance  was  as  an  answer  to  his 
prayer.  She  turned  upon  Tom  and  began 
quizzing  and  joking  him  about  his  recent  adven- 
ture, but  the  boy,  hardly  answering  her,  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  David  in  guilty  appre- 
hension. 

Presently,  to  the  relief  of  David  but  not  of 
Tom,  she  went  out.  Tom  stared  at  David  from 
near  the  window  where  he  had  stood  all  the 
while,  pulsing  with  fear  of  the  upbraiding,  and 
perhaps  something  worse,  that  he  knew  was  com- 
ing. David  gazed  back  at  him  through  narrow 
eyes  that  twitched  at  their  corners. 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "y°u  lied  to  me  about  the 
job." 

"Yes,"  the  boy  returned  in  a  whisper. 

"And  you  lied  to  me  about  Miss  Morgan  loan- 
ing you  money?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you've  been  stealing  all  this  time." 

"Yes.     But—" 

David's  thin  right  hand  stretched  across  the 
faded  comforter.  Tom  came  forward  in  slow 
wonderment  and  took  it.  David's  other  arm 
slipped  about  his  shoulders  and  drew  Tom  down 
upon  the  bed. 

"It  was  wrong — but,  boy,  what  a  heart  you've 
got!"  he  said  huskily. 

A  tremor  ran  through  Tom's  body,  as  though 
sobs  were  coming.  Then  the  body  stiff  ened,  as 
though  sobs  were  being  fought  down. 

"Is  dat  all  you're  goin'  to  say?"  asked  a  gruff, 
wondering  whisper. 


A  NEW  ITEM  121 

David's  arm  tightened.  "What  a  heart 
you've  got!" 

The  thin  body  quivered  again,  and  again 
stiffened.  But  the  eruption  was  not  to  be  con- 
trolled. Sharp  sobs  exploded,  then  by  a  tense 
effort  were  subdued.  Tom  struggled  up,  and 
David  saw  a  scowling  face,  tightly  clenched 
against  the  emotion  that  makes  you  lose  caste  to 
show.  The  boy's  look  was  a  defiant  declaration 
of  his  manhood. 

Suddenly  another  sob  broke  forth.  His  emo- 
tion was  out — his  manhood  gone.  He  turned 
abruptly.  "A-a-h,  hell,  pard!"  he  whispered 
fiercely,  tremulously,  then  snatched  his  hat  and 
rushed  out. 

All  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  all  during 
the  time  Tom,  who  slipped  back  a  little  later,  was 
shamefacedly  busy  with  the  dinner,  and  all  dur- 
ing the  evening,  David  thought  of  but  one 
thing — Helen  Chambers.  He  was  dizzily  weak ; 
collapse  had  quickly  followed  the  climacteric  ex- 
citement of  being  beside  her,  of  speaking  to  her. 
Her  visit  had  brought  him  no  hope,  no  en- 
couragement; if  anything,  an  even  blacker  de- 
spair. Before,  he  had  only  guessed  how  thor- 
oughly she  must  despise  him — her  disdain  had 
been  but  a  vague  quantity  of  his  imagination. 
Now  her  scorn  had  been  before  his  own  eyes. 
And  he  had  seen  its  wideness,  its  deepness,  even 
though  the  merest  trifle  of  it  showed  upon  the 
surface  of  her  courtesy.  A  warm  spring, 
though  amid  the  serenity  of  overhanging  leaves 
and  of  an  embracing  flower-set  lawn,  is  full 
token  of  vast  molten  depths  beneath  the  earth's 
controlled  face.  He  did  not  feel  resentful  to- 


122 

;ward  her.  Knowing  only  what  she  knew,  she 
could  not  regard  him  other  than  she  did. 

Twice  he  had  caught  a  look  of  doubt  upon  her 
face — once  when  he  had  spoken  of  his  three 
months*  illness  as  being  an  invention  of  Tom's, 
and  again  when  he  had  declared  to  her  that  he 
was  trying  to  live  honestly.  The  looks  now  re- 
curred to  him.  They  puzzled  him.  He  strained 
long  at  their  meaning;  and  then  it  entered  him 
like  a  plunging  knife,  and  he  gasped  with  the 
sudden  pain. 

She  believed  that  the  invention  was  Jiis3  that 
his  honesty  was  a  lie,  that  he  was  the  master  of 
Tom's  thefts  I 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL 

THAT  night  Tom  confessed  he  had  pri- 
vately saved  a  few  dollars;  and  from  the 
Morgans'  flat  he  brought  David's  overcoat 
and  several  of  the  other  articles  they  had 
pawned.  David's  conscience  demanded  that 
the  savings  should  not  be  used,  and  he  won- 
dered what  right  they  had  to  their  own  property, 
redeemed  with  stolen  money.  But  need  con- 
quered ethics.  A  day  or  two  later  the  landlady 
demanded  her  rent,  giving  the  choice  between 
payment  and  the  street;  the  money  went  to  her. 
Hunger  pressed  them;  the  redeemed  articles  be- 
gan to  return  one  by  one  to  the  pawnshop. 

In  a  few  days  the  grip  left  David,  and  though 
still  weak,  he  began  to  creep  about  the  streets, 
looking  for  work.  He  believed  success  impos- 
sible— and  immediately  success  came. 

The  great  stores  were  enlisting  armies  of  tem- 
porary employes  for  the  holiday  season,  and  as 
at  this  time  there  are  not  enough  first-class  men 
and  women  to  fill  the  ranks,  they  were  accepting 
the  second-class  and  the  third  and  the  tenth,  ex- 
amining no  one  closely.  David  heard  of  this 
chance,  and,  quailing  at  heart  and  expecting 
nothing,  joined  the  line  of  applicants  at  the  big 
department  store  of  Sumner  &  Co. 

123 


124  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"What  experience?"  demanded  the  superin- 
tendent when  David  reached  his  desk. 

"None,"  said  David. 

The  superintendent  glanced  him  over,  saw 
that  his  face  was  good. 

"Work  for  nine  a  week?" 

"Yes." 

He  scratched  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  handed 
it  to  David. 

"Start  in  at  once  in  the  check-room." 

David  reeled  away  from  the  desk.  That 
evening  he  and  Tom  celebrated  the  advent  of  the 
Impossible  by  eating  twenty  cents'  worth  of 
food ;  and  his  excited  hope,  fearful,  daring,  kept 
sleep  from  his  eyes  all  night.  He  knew  he  was 
only  a  temporary  man,  but  his  hope  reasoned 
that  if  he  gave  exceptional  satisfaction  he  might 
be  retained  after  the  great  post- Christmas  dis- 
charge. If  retained  permanently,  he  might 
work  his  way  up  in  the  store;  and  if  he  could 
remain  only  a  few  months,  at  least  he  would 
then  be  able  to  say,  when  seeking  a  new  place 
and  asked  for  his  record,  "I  worked  last  for  Sum- 
ner  and  Company;  I  refer  you  to  them."  His 
hope  told  him  this  position  might  prove  the  foot- 
hold he  sought — and  he  determined  to  exert  all 
that  was  in  him  to  make  it  so. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  fourth  day  here,  a 
woman  for  whom  he  had  just  laid  upon  the 
counter  several  packages  she  had  checked  two  or 
three  hours  before,  declared  that  a  small  parcel 
containing  gloves  was  missing.  Weary  and  ex- 
asperated from  her  day  among  the  jostling 
shoppers,  she  berated  David  in  loud  and  angry 
voice.  He  suggested  that  possibly  she  had  not 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL        125 

checked  the  parcel,  that  she  might  have  checked 
it  in  some  other  store,  that  perhaps  she  had  or- 
dered it  delivered  and  had  forgotten  it,  that 
possibly  she  had  dropped  it. 

Nothing  of  the  kind!  She  knew  what  she'd 
done  with  it!  They'd  been  careless,  and  given 
it  to  some  other  woman! 

David,  still  very  courteous,  suggested  that  pos- 
sibly it  had  been  picked  up  and  taken  to  the  lost- 
and-found  desk.  She  might  inquire  there. 

She  would  not!  She  had  left  it  here!  She 
had  been  robbed! 

She  was  departing  ragefully,  but  David  fol- 
lowed her  and  by  using  his  best  persuasion  se- 
cured her  grudging  consent  to  wait  till  he  him- 
self should  inquire  at  the  lost-and-found  desk. 
A  few  minutes  later  he  returned  with  the  pack- 
age. She  could  say  nothing  more,  for  on  the 
wrapper  was  the  stamp  of  the  desk  and  the  hour 
the  parcel  had  been  turned  in.  She  made  a  curt 
apology — it  came  hard,  but  still  it  was  an 
apology — and  went  out. 

David  had  his  reward.  The  superintendent 
over  him,  attracted  by  the  woman's  angry  voice, 
had  drawn  near  and  looked  on  unseen.  He 
now  came  forward.  "That  was  well  done,  Al- 
drich,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  have  handled  her 
better  myself." 

David  grew  warm.  Yes,  this  place  might 
prove  his  foothold! 

A  similar  thought  came  to  one  of  the  other 
four  men  in  the  check-room.  This  man,  a  regu- 
lar employe  in  the  room,  had  recently  been  re- 
proved several  times  for  negligence  and  discour- 
tesy, and  he  knew  his  hold  on  his  place  was  pre- 


126  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

carious.  The  fear  now  struck  him,  at  the  great 
discharge  might  not  he  be  sent  away  and  this 
new  man  Aldrich  be  kept? 

His  wits  set  to  work.  He  now  remembered 
that  David  had  evaded  questions  about  his  past. 
Perhaps  in  it  there  was  something  that  would 
change  his  chief's  opinion.  That  night  he  fol- 
lowed David,  warmed  by  his  strengthened  hope, 
from  the  store,  and  made  inquiries  in  the  little 
grocery  shop  in  David's  tenement.  Just  a  poor 
man  who  had  been  having  a  hard  time — this  was 
all  he  could  learn.  He  hung  around  the  tene- 
ment, and  presently  David  came  down  and 
walked  away.  He  followed.  After  several 
blocks  David  stopped  before  St.  Christopher's 
and  gazed  across  the  street  at  it.  The  shadow- 
ing man  wondered.  Then  it  occurred  to  him 
that  in  there  they  might  know  something  about 
this  man  Aldrich. 

He  entered. 

The  next  morning  David  was  summoned  to 
the  office  of  the  superintendent  of  his  depart- 
ment. He  was  still  aglow  from  the  commenda- 
tion of  yesterday.  But  the  superintendent's  face 
struck  him  cold. 

"Are  you  the  David  Aldrich  who  stole  five 
thousand  dollars  from  St.  Christopher's  Mis- 
sion?" the  superintendent  asked  quietly. 

For  a  minute  David  could  not  speak.  His 
foothold — lost !  Again  the  abyss ! 

"I  am,"  he  said.  But  here  was  a  man  differ- 
ent from  the  other  employer  that  had  discharged 
him.  Here  a  plea  might  be  effective.  "I  am," 
he  repeated.  And  then  he  went  on  desperately: 
"But  whatever  I  may  have  done,  I'm  honest  now. 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL        127 

As  honest  as  any  man.  And  I'll  work  hard — 
nothing  will  be  too  hard  1  I  ask  only  a  chance — 
any  sort  of  a  chance.  A  chance  to  earn  my  liv- 
ing!— a  chance  to  remain  honest!" 

"I  have  not  acted  hastily,"  the  superintendent 
returned.  "I  have  called  up  the  Mission  and 
confirmed  a  report  I  had  from  another  source. 
I  know  your  whole  story.  Your  pay  is  in  this 
envelope.  That  is  all." 

David  went  out,  dizzily  falling "...  fall- 
ing .  .  .  falling  into  depths  he  felt  were 
hopeless.  And  as  he  fell,  in  the  sickened  swirl 
of  his  mind  one  sudden  thought  stood  forth, 
sharp,  ironic:  It  was  St.  Christopher's  that  had 
pushed  him  from  his  foot-hold,  that  had  sent  him 
plunging  back  into  the  abyss! 

Once  more  began  the  search  for  work.  But 
now  fewer  men  were  needed;  there  was  time  to 
question.  But  he  tramped  on,  and  on,  looking 
always  for  a  man  who  would  not  question,  and 
always  rebuffed — his  clothes  growing  shabbier 
and  shabbier,  his  shoes  growing  thinner,  his  little 
money  wasting  away — foot-sore,  heart-sore, 
gripped  by  despair. 

He  had  chanced  upon  at  intervals  in  the  Bow- 
ery and  on  Broadway  several  of  his  Croton 
prison-mates.  All  of  them  that  had  tried  to  be 
honest  had  been  conquered  by  the  difficulties, 
and  had  gone  back  to  their  old  trades.  He  now, 
on  his  despairing  walks,  met  two  of  them  again, 
and  both  urged  him  to  quit  his  foolish  struggle 
and  join  with  them.  Nothing  during  the  three 
terrible  months  had  revealed  to  him  how  his 
moral  instincts  had  suffered  as  did  the  fact  that 
he  was  now  tempted. 


128          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

During  these  black  days  he  saw  little  of  Tom. 
David  did  not  want  to  talk,  did  not  want  to  box, 
there  were  no  meals ;  so  the  boy  came  home  only 
to  sleep.  David  was  certain  Tom  was  stealing 
again,  but  he  had  not  the  heart  for  reproof. 
One  can  hardly  seek  to  convert  a  thief  to  honesty 
when  one  can  only  offer  starvation  for  reform. 

Since  Helen  Chambers's  call  David  had  now 
and  then  had  a  faint  hope  that  he  might  in  some 
way  hear  from  her.  But  no  word  came.  He 
understood.  She  scorned  him  for  the  deed  of 
four  years  ago,  she  believed  he  was  now  regu- 
larly practising  theft  and  was  directing  the 
thefts  and  lies  of  a  boy.  Her  sympathy,  her  in- 
stinct to  aid,  might  impel  her  to  establish  friendly 
relations  with  a  repentant  thief,  but  never  with 
such  a  thief  as  she  considered  him. 

On  his  recovery  David  had  resumed  his  Wed- 
nesday evening  visits  to  his  accustomed  doorway 
near  St.  Christopher's.  One  night  he  saw  that 
which  poured  a  new  agony  into  the  cup  he  had 
thought  already  overbrimming.  When  Helen 
Chambers  stepped  from  the  Mission  a  man  he 
had  never  before  seen  was  beside  her — a  tall 
man,  of  maturity  and  dignity.  With  the  instant 
instinct  of  the  lover  he  recognized  here  another 
lover ;  and  he  read,  in  a  smiling  glance  she  turned 
up  as  they  passed  the  doorway,  that  this  man 
had  her  admiration  and  her  confidence. 

The  next  morning — the  night  had  held  the  cup 
constantly  to  his  lips — he  went  to  the  Astor  Li- 
brary and  secured  a  copy  of  the  Social  Register. 
The  man's  name,  as  it  had  come  to  him  across 
the  darkness  in  Helen's  low  resonant  voice,  was 
Allen.  There  were  many  Aliens  in  the  Register, 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL        129 

but  only  one  that  could  possibly  be  the  Allen  he 
had  seen  the  night  before.  The  Register's  data, 
and  deductions  therefrom,  informed  David  that 
Mr.  Henry  Allen  was  forty,  a  member  of  half  a 
dozen  clubs,  a  man  of  wealth  and  social  stand- 
ing, and  a  lawyer  of  notable  achievement. 

Just  the  sort  of  husband  Helen  Chambers  de- 
served! David  closed  the  book  and  crept  out. 

The  evening  of  the  day  before  he  found  work 
in  the  department  store,  Kate  Morgan  had  told 
him  she  had  just  secured  a  new  place.  "Did 
you  get  it  through  Miss  Chambers?  "  he  had  sus- 
piciously demanded. 

"No,"  she  had  answered,  smiling  defiantly. 
At  parting  she  had  said  with  sharp  decision, 
standing  at  his  door:  "You've  had  enough  of 
the  honest  life.  You're  going  to  be  with  me  on 
this  job.  Set  that  down."  Without  giving  him 
a  chance  to  reply,  she  had  stepped  out  and  closed 
the  door. 

He  did  not  see  her  again  till  the  middle  of 
December,  when  one  Sunday  evening  she 
knocked,  walked  in  and  promptly  sent  Tom  on 
an  errand. 

"I  can  only  stay  for  two  minutes,"  she  said, 
speaking  rapidly  and  in  a  low  voice.  "This  is 
supposed  to  be  my  Sunday  off,  but  one  of  the 
maids  is  sick,  so  instead  of  a  day  I  get  an  hour 
and  a  half.  Say,  it's  certainly  a  swell  house. 
The  family  is  just  a  man  and  his  mother.  Just 
them  two  in  a  house  big  enough  for  a  town — 
and  think  of  the  way  we  rub  ribs  down  here! 
They've  got  carloads  of  silver,  all  of  it  solid ;  and 
the  old  lady  has  simply  got  barrels  of  jewelry. 
They're  going  to  have  a  big  blow-out  on  Christ- 


130  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

mas,  so  none  of  the  servants  get  a  holiday  then. 
But  almost  all  of  them  are  going  to  get  New 
Year's  Eve  and  New  Year's  Day  out.  The 
house  will  be  almost  empty  New  Year's  Eve. 
That's  when  we'll  clean  it  up." 

"You  seem  to  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  join 
you,"  David  said  dryly. 

"None  at  all!  "  she  answered  promptly. 

"Well,  I  shaU  certainly  not!" 

"You  may  think  you'll  not,"  she  returned, 
undisturbed.  "But  you  will.  Anybody  but  a 
fool  would  have  come  to  his  senses  long  ago. 
You've  found  you  can't  get  a  job.  You've  got 
to  live.  It's  steal  or  starve.  Of  course  you're 
going  to  be  in." 

"I  shall  not! "  David  returned  doggedly. 

The  days  of  the  second  half  of  the  month 
moved  slowly  by.  David  continued  walking  the 
streets,  occasionally  daring  to  ask  for  work.  His 
money  was  all  gone,  and  everything  was  in  the 
pawnshop  except  his  overcoat,  from  which  he 
hardly  dared  part  at  this  season.  His  clothes 
were  now  so  worn  and  shapeless  as  of  themselves 
to  insure  the  refusal  of  any  place  but  that  of  a 
labourer.  A  labourer's  place  he  possibly  could 
have  found — for  a  labourer's  character  is  not 
questioned,  since  usually  there  is  opportunity  for 
him  to  steal  no  more  than  the  value  of  a  pick  and 
shovel,  and  the  wages  left  behind  would  more 
than  cover  such  a  loss.  But  for  a  labourer's 
work  David  had  not  a  labourer's  strength. 

He  was  forced  down  .  .  .  down;  finally 
to  those  low  services  by  which  the  dregs  of  the 
city's  population  keep  a  decrepit  life  within 
themselves.  The  odd  jobs  about  saloons  which 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL        131 

are  usually  done  for  beer-payment  he  performed 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  free-lunch  counter. 
He  peeled  potatoes  in  Bowery  restaurants  where 
dinners  are  fifteen  cents,  his  work  to  pay  for  a 
meal;  and  when  the  dinner,  which  he  had  seen 
cooked  in  a  filthy  kitchen  and  served  in  half- 
washed  dishes,  was  put  before  him,  his  stomach 
so  revolted  that  he  often  turned  from  the  un- 
tasted  food  and  hurried  into  the  street. 

He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  abyss.  Light, 
hope,  were  far  above — the  walls  were  smooth  and 
high — his  climbing  strength  was  gone.  He 
could  not  last  much  longer.  He  wondered, 
darkly,  fearfully,  what  would  be  the  end.  Yet 
he  had  not  given  up;  there  was  still  bitterness, 
rebellion,  in  him,  and  still  an  automatic,  stagger- 
ing courage. 

Three  days  before  New  Year's  Kate  Morgan 
called  again.  "I'm  home  to  stay;  my  father's 
so  sick  I  had  to  throw  up  my  job,"  she  said  with 
a  wink.  She  drew  a  ring  of  keys  from  the 
pocket  of  her  skirt  and  silently  held  them  before 
David's  eyes;  then,  with  a  sharp  little  smile,  she 
slipped  them  back,  and  drew  out  five  sheets  of 
paper,  on  each  of  which  was  a  rough  diagram  of 
one  of  the  floors  of  her  late  employer's  house, 
with  the  doors  and  stairways  marked  and  the  lo- 
cation of  the  valuables.  She  explained  the  plans 
to  him,  adding  details  not  charted,  and  on  rising 
to  go  she  handed  him  the  sheets  that  he  might 
familiarise  himself  with  the  house. 

"But  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  he 
said  desperately,  thrusting  back  the  papers. 

"Oh,  yes  you  will,"  she  returned,  putting  her 
hands  behind  her  back. 


132  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  let  the  sheets  fall  to  the  floor,  but  she  went 
out  without  giving  them  another  glance.  He 
looked  at  the  papers,  picked  them  up,  stared  at 
them  whitely;  and  then,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  as 
though  he  would  annihilate  temptation,  he  tore 
the  sheets  into  a  thousand  flakes  and  thrust  them 
into  his  pocket. 

The  next  morning  he  set  forth  with  the  de- 
spairing energy  of  the  man  who  has  a  new  fear, 
who  has  fiercely  summoned  all  his  resources  for 
a  last  struggle.  But  mid- winter  is  a  season  when 
even  a  skilled  man  of  blameless  reputation  has 
trouble  in  finding  work;  for  David  there  was  no 
chance  whatever.  And  then,  in  his  extreme  des- 
peration, he  determined  on  a  new  course — in 
asking  for  work  he  would  openly  tell  his  record. 
Perhaps  some  one,  out  of  sympathy  for  the 
struggle  he  was  making,  would  give  him  an  op- 
portunity. He  had  thought  of  this  plan  before, 
but  he  had  put  it  aside,  because,  he  had  reasoned, 
to  avow  himself  a  thief  was  to  murder  his 
chances.  But  the  old  course  had  brought  him 
nothing;  the  new  plan  held  at  least  a  possibility. 

David  walked  the  streets  half  the  day  before 
he  could  drive  himself  to  try  this  plan.  At 
length  a  superintendent  consented  to  see  him 
and  listen  to  his  story  and  appeal.  "I  appre- 
ciate your  frankness,"  the  superintendent  re- 
plied, not  unkindly.  "But  I  am  under  strict 
orders  on  this  point ;  I  can  take  only  men  of  the 
straightest  records.  But  I  hope  you'll  find  some- 
thing." 

David  was  left  without  courage  to  try  the  plan 
again  that  afternoon.  The  next  day  he  could 
find  no  one  willing  to  hear  him.  In  the  evening 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL         133 

Kate  Morgan  called  again.  Everything  was  in 
readiness  for  their  venture  of  the  following 
night,  she  told  him.  Once  more  he  declared  that 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  affair. 
But  to  himself  his  words  sounded  only  of  the 
lips;  and  his  indignation  did  not  quicken  the 
least  trifle  when  Kate  flung  a  dry  laugh  into  his 
face. 

The  following  morning,  the  last  day  of  De- 
cember, he  spurred  his  spent  courage  on  to  an- 
other attempt.  He  at  length  found  a  wholesale 
notion  store  where  a  packer  was  wanted.  The 
head  of  the  packing  department  was  large  and 
powerful,  with  coarse,  man-driving  features; 
but,  undeterred  by  this  appearance,  David  re- 
cited his  story. 

The  superintendent  stared  amazedly  at  David, 
and  swore.  "Well  if  you  ain't  got  the  nerve! " 
he  roared.  "You  admit  you're  a  crook,  and  yet 
you  ask  me  for  a  job!  What  d'you  think  we're 
runnin'  here? — a  reform  school?  Not  on  your 
life !  Now  you  see  if  you  can't  find  the  door  out 
o'  here — and  quick!" 

David  had  neither  the  strength  nor  the  spirit 
to  reply  to  this  man  as  he  had  replied  to  the 
owner  of  the  department  store  in  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fifth  Street.    When  he  reached  the 
open  air  he  walked  a  few  paces,  then  paused  and 
leaned  against  the  front  of  a  building.    He  felt ' 
an  utter  exhaustion — there  was  not  another  ef- 
fort in  him.    He  was  like  a  horse,  driven  to  the 
last  ounce  of  its  strength,  that  lies  down  in  its  ' 
tracks  to  die;  the  whip  can  only  make  it  quiver, ' 
cannot  make  it  rise.     He  chanced  to  turn  his 
head,  and  saw  himself  in  the  mirror  that  backed 


134  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

the  show-window — a  thin,  stooping  figure  with 
a  white  line  of  a  mouth  and  a  gray,  haggard 
face.  He  was  so  numb,  so  spiritually  spent,  that 
this  spectre  of  himself  stirred  not  a  single  emo- 
tion within  him. 

That  evening  he  swept  a  saloon,  and  ate  of 
the  cheese  and  corn-beef  sandwiches  at  the  free- 
lunch  counter  till  the  bartender  ordered  him  out. 
Then  he  wandered  aimlessly  through  the  night, 
which  was  balmy  despite  the  month,  with  no  de- 
sire to  return  to  the  dingy  four  walls  of  his  un- 
heated  room.  He  remembered  in  a  vague  way 
that  this  was  the  night  Kate  Morgan  had  set 
for  the  robbery;  and  perhaps  his  staying  from 
home  was  due  to  the  unfelt  guidance  of  his  con- 
science. He  had  no  definite  thoughts  or  sensa- 
tions ;  only  a  vast,  stunning  sense  of  absolute  de- 
feat. 

A  little  after  eleven  o'clock  he  found  himself 
wandering  along  the  East  River,  and  presently 
he  turned  upon  a  dock  and  walked  toward  the 
water  between  two  rows  of  trucks,  facing  each 
other,  their  shafts  raised  supplicatingly  to  the 
stars.  He  seated  himself  at  the  end  of  the  dock, 
and  his  chin  in  his  two  hands,  looked  out  upon 
the  river.  Save  for  the  reflection,  like  luminous, 
writhing  arms,  that  the  few  lights  of  Brooklyn 
reached  toward  him  on  the  water's  surface,  and 
save  for  the  turbulent  brilliance  under  the  Wil- 
liamsburg  Bridge's  great  bow  of  arc  lights,  the 
river,  which  the  tide  was  dragging  wildly  out  to 
sea,  was  as  black  as  blindness. 

He  gazed  forth  into  the  darkness,  forth  upon 
the  swirling  water — dully,  without  thought,  in 
the  flat  stupor  of  unrising  defeat.  .  .  . 


THE  WORLD'S  DENIAL         135 

Presently  a  bell  began  to  send  down  the  hour 
from  a  neighbouring  steeple.  Mechanically  he 
counted  the  strokes.  Twelve.  The  number  at 
first  had  no  significance,  but  after  a  moment  its 
meaning  thrilled  him  through.  This  was  the 
New  Year!  .  .  .  The  New  Year!  .  .  . 
And  how  was  he  beginning  it?  Penniless — 
friendless — without  work — with  little  strength — 
with  no  courage — without  hope.  A  happy  New 
Year,  indeed! 

Suddenly  all  the  bitterness  that  had  been  gath- 
ering and  smouldering  within  him  these  last  four 
months,  burst  out  volcanically.  And  his  passion 
was  not  alone  in  his  own  behalf ;  it  was  in  behalf 
of  the  thousands  of  others  who  had  made  a  simi- 
lar struggle,  and  to  whom  the  world  had  simi- 
larly denied  the  privilege  of  honesty.  Starved 
and  hopeless!  Why?  Because  he  could  not 
work? — because  there  was  no  work? — because 
the  world  had  decided  the  moral  development  of 
such  as  he  required  further  punishment?  No. 
Because  the  rich,  powerful  world  was  afraid! — 
afraid  of  its  dollars!  Because,  if  he  were  taken 
in,  given  a  chance  to  live  honestly,  he  might 
steal  a  bolt  of  cloth,  or  a  coat,  or  a  vase,  or  a 
shawl!  There  was  the  reason — the  only  reason. 
A  bolt  of  cloth  against  a  human  life,  begging  to 
live!  A  coat  against  a  human  soul,  agonising  to 
be  honest !  Cloths  and  coats  mean  dollars — mean 
carriages,  and  diamonds,  and  wines.  Cloths  and 
coats  must  be  guarded. 

But  the  human  life?    The  human  soul? 

In  his  wild  rage  David  rose,  turned  his  back 
upon  the  dark  river,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the 
great  indifferent  city. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   OPEN   ROAD 

AT  one  o'clock  David,  still  aflame  with  bitter- 
ness, was  entering  his  room  when  a  door 
across  the  hall  opened  and  Kate  Morgan  looked 
out.  "Come  into  my  house!"  she  snapped  in  a 
whisper. 

David  could  not  see  her  face,  but  her  voice 
told  him  she  was  angry.  He  followed  her.  Ac- 
tresses' photographs  on  the  walls,  a  rug  of  glar- 
ing design,  cheap  red-and-green  upholstered 
furniture  that  overcrowded  the  little  room — such 
was  Kate  Morgan's  parlour.  She  closed  the 
door,  then  turned,  her  eyes  blazing,  and  swore 
at  him. 

"A  nice  time  to  be  getting  home!  I've  been 
waiting  two  hours  for  you!" 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  uncompre- 
hendingly.  "Oh,  you're  thinking  of  that  rob- 
bery. You  needn't  have  waited.  I  told  you  I'd 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Drop  that  bluffing!  You  know  you're  in 
it!" 

He  started  toward  the  door. 

"Where  you  going?  "  she  demanded. 

"To  bed." 

She  seized  his  arm,  stepped  between  him  and 
the  door  and  stared  wrathfully  up  at  him.  She 
now  saw  how  pale  and  drawn  his  face  was.  Her 

136 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  137 

wrath  slowly  left  her.     "You're  tired — blue," 
she  said,  abruptly,  but  softly. 

He  nodded.     "So  I'm  going  to  bed." 

"Let's  chat  a  minute  first,"  she  said,  and  drew 
him  to  the  largest  of  the  chairs,  and  pushed  him 
down  into  it.  "And  we'll  have  something  to 
eat,  just  you  and  me.  I've  made  dad  go  to  bed. 
It's  all  ready.  I'll  bring  it  in  here." 

She  moved  a  little  table  before  him  and  went 
out.  Could  David  have  seen  the  look  she  held 
upon  him  through  the  door,  he  would  have  been 
puzzled,  perhaps  startled.  After  she  had  made 
three  trips  into  the  rear  of  the  flat  there  were 
upon  the  table  a  plate  of  sandwiches,  a  dish  of 
olives,  a  pie,  and  two  cups  of  coffee,  all  served 
with  a  neatness  that,  after  the  Bowery  restau- 
rants, was  astonishing  to  David. 

"Now,  we'll  begin,"  she  said,  and  sat  down  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  little  table.  The  food 
had  a  wonderful  taste  to  David,  and  the  coffee — 
it  was  real  coffee — warmed  his  chilled  body. 
For  several  minutes  they  both  ate  in  silence,  then 
Kate  pushed  back  her  chair,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  sat  regarding  him  with  eyes  that  grew  very 
soft. 

When  he  had  finished  she  leaned  suddenly, 
forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  one  of  his. 

"I  don't  like  it  for  you  to  look  this  way, 
David,"  she  said. 

He  started  at  the  touch  and  at  the  "David." 
She  saw  the  start  and  drew  her  hand  away. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  call  you  David?  We're  good 
pals,  ain't  we?  I'm  tired  of  this  miss  and  mister 
business.  Call  me  Kate." 

He  was  still  too  surprised  to  make  an  immedi- 


138  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ate  answer,  and  she  went  on  softly,  "You  look 
very  bad!" 

The  remark  brought  flooding  back  to  him  all 
his  misery  and  hopelessness,  all  his  rebellion,  and 
he  forgot  his  wonder  at  her  overture.  "Why 
shouldn't  I?"  he  asked  bitterly. 

She  nodded.  "I  understand,"  she  said.  "The 
world's  got  no  use  for  a  man  that's  been  a  crook. 
He's  got  no  chance.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  boys 
come  back,  and  swear  they'd  never  touch  another 
job.  They  tried — some  of  'em  hard,  but  none  as 
hard  as  you.  But  nobody  wanted  'em.  What 
way  was  open?  Only  one — to  go  back  to  crack- 
ing cribs.  They  all  went  back."  She  paused, 
then  added :  "Now  I  want  to  ask  you  one  square 
question:  what's  the  use  trying?" 

David  was  remembering  his  four  months'  fu- 
tile struggle  when  he  involuntarily  echoed, 
"What's  the  use!" 

"Yes,  what? "  she  continued  quickly.  "The 
world  may  not  owe  you  a  living,  but  it  owes  you 
the  right  to  live.  It  owes  you  that  much.  If  it 
won't  let  you  live  by  working,  why,  you've  got 
to  live  by  stealing.  There's  no  other  way. 
You've  tried  the  first — " 

She  went  on,  but  David  heard  no  more.  His 
bitterness,  his  resentment,  were  making  a  fiercer 
plea.  Yes,  he  had  tried!  Could  any  man  try 
harder?  And  what  had  he  gained?  Rebuff — 
insult — uttermost  poverty.  There  was  no  use 
in  trying  further — none  whatever.  There  was 
left  only  the  second  way — the  one  road  that 
is  always  open,  that  always  welcomes  the  repent- 
ant thief  whom  the  world  refuses. 

Why  should  he  not  enter  this  only  road?    He 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  139 

had  no  single  friend  who  would  be  pained.  He 
had  no  faintest  hope  of  a  future.  All  that  could 
be  lost  was  lost.  The  thief's  trade  promised  him 
the  necessities  of  life.  He  had  offered  to  pay 
the  world  in  work  for  these  necessities,  but  the 
world  had  refused  his  payment.  What  could  he 
do,  then,  but  take  them? — Besides,  would  it  not 
be  just  treatment  of  the  world — of  the  world 
that  had  destroyed  him,  of  the  world  that  cared 
more  for  dollars  than  for  souls — if  some  of  its 
all-precious  wealth  were  taken  from  it? 

He  looked  up;  his  face  was  tight-set,  vindic- 
tive; his  eyes  glittered. 

Kate's  gaze  was  fixed  upon  him,  waiting. 
"It's  time  we  were  starting,"  she  said.  "It's  al- 
most two." 

He  breathed  deeply,  almost  convulsively. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 

She  reached  across  and  seized  his  hand.  "I 
knew  you'd  come  in ! "  she  cried  triumphantly. 
"We'll  turn  a  lot  of  tricks  together,  you  and 
me!" 

He  gripped  her  hand  so  hard  that  she  gave  a 
little  gasp,  but  he  did  not  answer.  For  a  minute 
or  more  they  looked  silently  into  each  other's 
face. 

"Come,  we  must  go,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "You 
have  your  diagram  of  the  house?  " 

"No.    I  tore  it  up." 

She  drew  some  sheets  from  the  front  of  her 
flannel  waist.  "Here's  another,  then.  You  may 
need  it." 

From  beneath  the  red-and-green  sofa  she  took 
a  suit-case,  which  she  threw  open.  In  it  were  a 
full  set  of  burglar's  tools.  "We  really  don't  need 


140  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

'em,  for  I've  got  keys  to  almost  everything.  But 
we'll  take  'em  along  and  twist  the  locks  a  bit,  so 
they'll  never  suspect  the  job  may  have  been  done 
by  someone  who'd  been  in  the  inside — that  is,  by 
me.  We'll  bring  the  swag  back  in  the  suit- 


case," 


She  looked  at  David,  as  at  a  superior  artist,  for 
commendation  of  her  plan;  but  he  silently  re- 
garded the  strange  instruments  in  the  bag.  She 
slipped  on  a  pair  of  rubbers,  fastened  on  a  little 
hat,  and  had  David  help  her  into  a  short  jacket 
which  had  large  pockets  in  the  lining.  David 
drew  on  his  overcoat,  picked  up  the  suit-case,  and 
together  they  crept  down  the  black  stairways  and 
out  into  the  street.  She  chattered  softly  all  the 
while,  as  though  fearing  David,  if  left  to  his 
own  thoughts,  might  withdraw  from  the  adven- 
ture. 

Shortly  before  three  o'clock  Kate  paused,  in 
one  of  the  Seventies  near  Fifth  Avenue,  before 
a  flight  of  broad  steps  leading  up  to  a  broad 
stoop  and  a  broad  entrance.  "Here  we  are,"  she 
whispered. 

They  searched  the  street  in  both  directions 
with  quick  glances.  Not  a  soul  was  in  sight. 
Then  they  slipped  to  the  shadowed  servants'  en- 
trance beneath  the  stoop,  and  in  less  than  a  min- 
ute Kate  had  unlocked  a  door  of  iron  grating 
and  a  second  door  of  wood,  and  they  were  stand- 
ing in  a  dark  hallway.  She  opened  the  grip, 
handed  David  a  lantern,  took  one  for  herself, 
tied  a  handkerchief  over  his  face  so  that  all  below 
the  eyes  was  hidden,  and  masked  herself  likewise. 
Then  with  a  jimmy  and  a  wrench  she  hurried 
away. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  141 

Two  minutes  later  she  reappeared.  She  was 
inspired  with  the  desire  to  impress  David  with 
her  skill  as  a  thief,  as  another  woman  might  be 
inspired  to  attract  male  attention  by  the  display 
of  her  beauty.  "I  just  opened  a  back  window 
and  broke  the  latch,"  she  whispered.  "We'll 
lock  these  doors  when  we  go  out,  and  they'll 
think  we  got  in  through  the  window.  Now,  come 
on.  But  hadn't  you  better  take  off  your  shoes? 
They're  pretty  heavy." 

David  sat  down  upon  a  chair,  and  she  turned 
her  lantern's  bar  of  light  upon  his  feet,  so  that 
he  could  better  manage  the  laces.  When  the 
shoes  came  off,  there  were  his  heels  and  toes 
gleaming  whitely.  In  the  confusion  of  strange 
sensations  that  had  begun  to  flow  in  upon  him, 
he  had  forgotten  that  his  stockings  were  only 
tops.  He  quickly  shifted  his  feet  out  of  the  em- 
barrassing rays. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Kate.  "There'll  be 
plenty  of  new  ones  to-morrow." 

They  went  up  a  narrow  stairway,  then  a  broad 
one,  stealthily  following  the  guidance  of  the 
lantern's  white  finger,  pausing  breathless  at  every 
three  or  four  steps  to  reach  forth  with  their  ears 
for  any  possible  stir  of  life — Kate  tense  and 
alert  with  excitement,  David  giddied  by  a  chok- 
ing, throbbing,  unshaped  emotion.  After  a 
dozen  of  these  pauses,  when  to  David  the  ruba- 
dub  of  his  heart  seemed  to  resound  through  the 
house,  Kate  led  him  across  deep  rugs  and 
through  a  broad  doorway  hung  with  tapestries. 

"The  drawing-room,"  she  whispered,  and 
slowly  sweeping  it  with  her  lantern  she  revealed 
to  him  its  gorgeous  fittings.  Then  her  lantern 


142  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

sought  out  a  curio  cabinet,  of  glass  sides  arid 
gilded  frame,  standing  in  a  corner.  "That's 
what  we  want  in  here,"  she  said.  At  her  order 
David  set  down  the  suit-case  he  had  carried,  and 
they  tiptoed  to  the  cabinet  over  rugs  worth  hun- 
dreds of  dollars  a  step. 

"You  get  the  good  things  in  there,  I'll  go  up- 
stairs after  the  old  lady's  sparklers,  and  then 
we'll  both  go  down  and  get  the  silver,"  she  whis- 
pered, as  she  unlocked  the  cabinet  with  one  of 
her  keys.  "I'll  meet  you  here  in  a  little  while." 

A  sudden  fear  of  being  alone  leaped  up  in 
David.  He  clutched  Kate's  arm  and  threw  the 
lantern's  light  into  her  face.  Of  the  face  he  saw 
only  a  narrow  slit  between  her  handkerchief  and 
hat-brim,  amid  which  her  eyes  gleamed  like  black 
diamonds. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "You're 
trembling." 

"It  must  be — my  nerves  are  gone,"  he  whis- 
pered, with  an  effort. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  all  right  when  you've  been  fed 
up  and  done  another  job  or  two." 

He  watched  her  little  figure  glide  out  of  the 
room  behind  its  headlight,  then  he  turned  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  miniature  portraits  in  gem- 
set  frames,  the  old  hand-painted  fans,  the  heavy 
old-fashioned  lockets  and  earrings  and  bracelets, 
that  lay  upon  the  glass  shelves  of  the  cabinet. 

He  had  no  distinct  thought  toward  the  arti- 
cles— there  was  no  thought,  not  even  a  vague 
one,  in  his  mind.  His  throat  and  lips  were  dry, 
his  eyes  were  wide  and  fixed.  His  dizzy,  un- 
powering  emotion  had  so  increased  that  he  would 
not  have  been  surprised  had  he  slipped  to  the 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  143 

floor  and  spread  out  like  a  boneless  sea  creature. 
He  was  mental  and  emotional  incoherence. 

The  intention  to  steal  had  brought  him  here. 
That  intention  was  over  an  hour  old,  but  since  it 
had  been  neither  fulfilled  nor  countermanded,  it 
was  stored  energy;  and  presently  it  began  to 
move  his  will-less  members,  as  the  stored  energy 
of  a  coiled  spring  sets  an  automaton  at  its  ap- 
pointed task.  He  took  from  the  floor  the 
plunder-bag  Kate  had  given  him,  and  holding 
the  lantern  and  the  edge  of  the  bag's  mouth  in 
his  left  hand,  he  swung  open  the  plate-glass  door 
of  the  cabinet.  His  eyes  selected  a  golden  brace- 
let, and  his  hand  moved  slowly  forward  and  took 
it  up. 

Then  suddenly  his  fingers  unclosed,  the 
bracelet  clicked  back  upon  the  glass  shelf,  and 
his  hand  withdrew  from  the  cabinet.  The  coiled 
spring  of  his  intention  had  snapped.  The  touch 
of  what  was  another  man's  had  readjusted  his 
confused  senses.  His  blurred  feelings  became 
definite,  his  dumb  brain  articulate.  He  saw 
what  he  was  doing,  saw  it  clearly,  as  a  bare  act, 
unjustified  by  the  arguments  his  bitterness  had 
urged  upon  him  an  hour  before — saw  that  he 
was  committing  a  theft! 

A  chill  swept  through  him  and  he  sat  stiffly 
upright  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  bracelet 
he  had  dropped.  In  the  mood  he  had  been  in  an 
hour  or  two  hours  before  David  would  not  have 
drawn  back  from  theft,  any  more  than  any  other 
normal  starving  man,  could  it  have  been  com- 
mitted quickly,  upon  impulse.  But  the  hour  that 
had  passed,  the  deliberation  which  was  surround- 
ing the  theft,  had  given  opportunity  to  his  moral 


144  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

being  to  overthrow  the  impulse  and  assert  itself. 

He  rose,  forgetting  even  to  take  the  cabinet 
key.  He  would  leave  the  house  at  once. 

But  as  he  passed  out  of  the  drawing-room  it 
came  to  him  that  he  could  not  go  away  without 
telling  Kate  of  his  purpose.  Before  him  he  saw 
a  flight  of  stairs ;  she  was  somewhere  above.  He 
stealthily  mounted,  passed  through  a  doorway 
and  found  himself  in  a  library.  He  stood  a  mo- 
ment with  strained  ears,  but  got  no  sound  of  her. 
He  must  go  through  the  floor,  and  perhaps 
through  the  floor  above;  but  before  proceeding 
further  he  must  get  the  lay  of  the  house. 

He  moved  noiselssly  toward  the  library  table, 
drawing  out  the  plan  Kate  had  given  him.  He 
set  the  lantern  on  the  table  beside  a  telephone, 
spread  out  the  sheets  and  was  sitting  down  when 
cautious  footfalls  sounded  without.  The  next 
instant  a  blade  of  light  stabbed  the  room's  dark- 
ness. 

"Kate? "  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

They  came  toward  each  other  and  each  threw 
his  light  into  the  other's  masked  face. 

"I've  got  the  old  lady's  twinklers,"  she  said. 
"Where's  your  swag? " 

"I  didn't  take  it,"  he  whispered.  "I've 
changed  my  mind.  I'm  leaving." 

"What!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  anything.  I'm  going 
away.  I  came  to  tell  you  that." 

She  drew  a  step  nearer  and  for  a  space  her 
black  eyes  gazed  up  into  his  in  amazement.  The 
deep  night  silence  of  the  great  house  flooded 
over  them. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  145 

"You  mean  it? "  she  demanded. 

"Yes.'* 

"Why?" 

"I  cannot.    It  was  a  mistake,  my  coming." 

Her  eyes  suddenly  gleamed  like  knife  points, 
she  trembled  with  passion,  and  she  plunged  her 
whispered  words  in  up  to  the  hilt. 

"So  that's  the  kind  of  nerve  you've  got!  Oh, 
my  God!  .  .  .  What  a  damned  coward  you 
are!  .  .  .  Well,  get  out!  I  don't  want 
you! 

She  brushed  him  wrathfully  by,  and  tensely 
erect,  her  free  hand  clenched,  walked  out  of  the 
room  behind  the  shaft  of  light. 

He  stood  motionless  where  she  had  left  him, 
alone  amid  the  great  hush.  Her  words  had 
pierced  to  the  seat  of  life.  He  quivered  with  the 
pain — deserved  pain,  he  realised,  for  it  was  not 
a  noble  part  to  leave  a  comrade  at  such  a  time. 
But  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  coming,  and  the 
only  way  to  correct  it  was  to  go.  He  wished  she 
would  go  with  him,  but  he  knew  the  result  of 
asking  her.  She  would  stab  him  again,  and 
walk  away  in  contempt. 

He  sighed,  set  his  lantern  on  the  table,  and 
folded  and  pocketed  the  plans  of  the  house.  As 
he  laid  hold  of  his  lantern  to  start  away  he  saw 
on  the  table,  in  the  lantern's  ribbon  of  light, 
three  or  four  letters  that  had  evidently  been 
written  during  the  evening  and  left  to  be  mailed 
in  the  morning.  He  started,  sank  to  a  chair, 
and  gazed  fixedly  at  one  of  the  envelopes.  The 
name  on  it  was  "Miss  Helen  Chambers." 

Amid  all  the  sensations  that  swirled  within 
him,  his  mind  instantly  made  one  deduction: 


146  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Kate  Morgan  had,  after  all,  secured  a  place 
through  Helen  Chambers,  and  they  were  now  in 
the  home  of  one  of  her  friends. 

For  a  minute  or  more  he  sat  staring  at  the 
envelope.  It  was  almost  as  if  Helen  herself  had 
surprised  him  in  his  guilty  presence  here.  Then, 
across  the  darkness  of  the  room,  there  came  the 
faintest  of  sounds. 

He  thought  it  was  Kate.  "Is  that  you? "  he 
whispered. 

There  was  no  answer;  only  dead  quiet.  In 
sudden  fear  he  sprang  up  and  directed  the  lan- 
tern's pointer  of  light  toward  whence  the  sound 
had  come.  The  white  spot  fell  upon  the  skirt 
of  a  dressing-gown.  He  jerked  the  pointer  up- 
ward. The  luminous  circle  enframed  the  square- 
jawed,  clean-shaven  face  of  a  man — of  the  man 
he  had  seen  with  Helen  Chambers — of  Mr. 
Allen. 

Instantly  the  room  was  filled  with  a  blinding 
glare,  and  David  saw  Mr.  Allen  standing  in  the 
doorway,  his  left  hand  still  on  the  electric-light 
key,  his  right  holding  out  a  revolver. 

"Yes,  it's  I,"  said  Mr.  Allen  in  a  quiet,  grim 
voice.  "Suppose  you  remove  your  mask  and 
give  me  the  equal  pleasure  of  seeing  whom  I'm 
meeting." 

There  was  no  disobeying,  with  a  revolver's 
muzzle  staring  coldly  at  him.  David  drew  the 
handkerchief  down  and  let  it  fall  about  his  neck. 

Mr.  Allen  gazed  a  moment  at  David's  face, 
thin,  haggard,  yet  rare  in  its  fineness.  "H'm. 
A  new  variety."  His  gaze  shifted  till  its  edge 
took  in  the  telephone  on  the  table,  and  there  it 
rested  reflectively.  Then  he  remarked,  as  though 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  147 

completing  his  thought  aloud,  "I  guess  it  will  be 
safer  for  you  to  do  the  telephoning.  Will  you 
please  call  up  Central  and  ask  her  to  give  you 
Police  Headquarters?" 

Wild,  contrary  impulses  tugged  at  David,  but 
man's  primal  instinct,  self-preservation,  con- 
trolled him  the  first  moment. 

"I  have  been  near  starvation,"  he  said,  forcing 
his  words  to  calmness.  "I  came  here  to  steal — 
yes;  but  when  I  tried  to  steal,  I  could  not.  I 
-I  did  not  steall" 

His  plea  snapped  off  harshly.  The  world 
had  driven  him  here,  and  with  a  rush  he  realised 
the  world  would  not  forgive  him  for  being  here. 
Bitterness  swept  into  him  in  a  great  wave,  and 
the  recklessness  that  feels  that  all  is  lost.  Be- 
sides, he  could  not  ask  mercy  of  Helen  Cham- 
ber s's  lover. 

Mr.  Allen  gave  an  ironic  laugh.  "I've  been 
hearing  that  sort  of  story  for  fifteen  years. 
There  never  was  a  guilty  man. — Call  up  Cen- 
tral." 

The  natural  animal  hatred  of  a  rival  flared  up. 
David  looked  Mr.  Allen  definantly  in  the  face. 
"If  you  want  Central,  call  her  yourself! "  he 
said  slowly. 

Mr.  Allen  was  surprised,  but  his  surprise 
passed  immediately  under  his  control.  "Of 
course  you  are  aware,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  you 
have  the  choice  between  calling  up  and  being 
shot." 

"And  you  are  aware,"  David  returned,  "that 
you  have  the  choice  between  calling  up  and 
shooting." 

Mr.  Allen  was  silent  a  moment.    "The  killing 


148  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

of  a  man  who  enters  your  house  is  justified  by 
law,"  he  warned  grimly. 

"Well— why  don't  you  shoot?  " 

"Are  you  going  to  call  up? " 

"So  then — you're  afraid  to  shoot!"  taunted 
David. 

Mr.  Allen  remained  silent.  He  gazed  at 
David  over  the  pistol  barrel,  and  David  gazed 
back  at  the  pistol  and  at  Mr.  Allen.  Their  wills 
had  locked  horns,  stood  braced. 

"I'm  getting  very  tired,"  said  David,  throw- 
ing a  leg  over  a  corner  of  the  table.  "If  you 
don't  shoot  soon  I'll  have  to  go." 

At  this  instant  David  saw  in  the  doorway  be- 
hind Mr.  Allen  the  small  figure  of  Kate  Mor- 
gan. In  her  right  hand  there  shone  a  little 
pistol,  in  her  left  she  held  a  heavy  walking- 
stick. 

Mr.  Allen  broke  his  silence.  "If  you  make  a 
move  toward  your  pocket  while  I  cross  the  floor, 
it'll  be  your  last  move." 

David's  will  had  conquered,  but  his  exultation 
did  not  speak.  He  was  watching  Kate  Morgan, 
fascinated.  Her  pistol  rose,  then  fell,  and  the 
pistol  and  walking-stick  exchanged  hands.  Mr. 
Allen  took  the  first  step  toward  the  telephone. 
The  stick  came  up,  whizzed  down  upon  Mr. 
Allen's  pistol  hand.  The  weapon  went  flying 
upon  the  rug,  and  Mr.  Allen  let  out  a  sharp  cry 
and  started  to  whirl  around.  As  the  stick  struck 
flesh  David  sprang  forward,  and  with  the  skill 
of  his  old  boxing-days,  with  all  his  strength  and 
weight  focussed  in  the  blow,  he  drove  his  fist 
against  Mr.  Allen's  unguarded  chin.  Mr.  Allen 
fell  limply  upon  the  deep  carpet. 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  149 

"Come  on!  Out  of  here!  "  cried  David,  seizing 
Kate's  arm. 

She  jerked  away  and  stood  tensely  erect,  glar- 
ing at  him.  "Go,  you  coward !  I  stay  here !  " 

"But  you'll  get  caught!  " 

"That's  my  business!  "  she  blazed.  "Get  out! 
— I'm  going  to  finish  the  job." 

She  whirled  about,  jerked  the  handkerchief 
from  her  face,  thrust  it  into  Allen's  mouth,  and 
tied  this  gag  securely  in  place  with  a  handker- 
chief which  she  took  from  the  pocket  of  Allen's 
dressing-gown.  Then  she  tied  his  feet  with  the 
dressing-gown's  rope  girdle,  and  his  hands  with 
one  of  the  silken  ropes  that  held  back  the  hang- 
ings in  the  broad  doorway.  This  done,  she 
sprang  to  the  electric-light  key,  and  the  room 
filled  with  blackness. 

She  flashed  her  lantern  on  David,  who  had 
stood  watching  her  rapid  actions  in  amazement. 
"Why  don't  you  go?  Get  out!  " 

"See  here,  it's  crazy  to  stay  here.  You  know 
it.  You've  got  to  come  with  me." 

His  lantern,  which  he  had  taken  up,  showed  a 
face  that  darted  scorn  and  rage.  "Go  with  you? 
— I'll  die  first!"  she  returned  in  a  low,  fierce 
whisper.  And  then  she  added,  each  slow  word 
edged  with  infinite  contempt: 

"Oh,  what  a  poor  damned  coward!" 

He  quivered,  but  he  said  quietly,  "If  you 
won't  go,  I'll  stay  with  you." 

"Stay  with  me?  You'll  not!  I  won't  have 
you!" 

She  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room.  He 
stood  thinking  for  a  space ;  then  he  went  out  and 
crept  down  the  stairway.  As  he  passed  the  draw- 


150  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ing-room  door  he  saw  Kate  bending  in  front  of 
the  open  curio  cabinet.  He  crept  down  another 
flight  to  the  first  floor  and  hid  himself  behind  a 
palm  in  an  angle  of  the  great  hall.  He  strained 
his  ears  for  trouble,  ready  to  rush  upstairs  at  the 
first  sound.  After  a  time  a  wand  of  light  was 
thrust  down  the  stairway.  Then  came  Kate,  the 
suit-case  in  one  hand,  feeling  her  way  with  the 
wand  like  a  blind  man  with  a  cane.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  searching  light  pierced  through  the 
palm  into  his  face,  and  David  thought  he  was 
discovered ;  but  she  glided  on  and  down  the  base- 
ment stairs.  He  let  several  minutes  pass;  then 
he  too  slipped  out  into  the  street. 

Perhaps  it  was  chance,  perhaps  it  was  the  di- 
rection of  the  subconscious,  that  led  David  in  his 
circuitous  homeward  journey,  past  St.  Christo- 
pher's Mission.  He  was  walking  slowly  along, 
the  caution  of  the  first  part  of  his  flight  forgot- 
ten in  the  mixture  of  despair  and  shame  that 
now  possessed  him,  when  he  waded  into  pools  of 
coloured  light  that  lay  upon  the  sidewalk  and  the 
street.  He  looked  up.  There,  aglow  with  its 
inspiration,  was  the  window  to  the  memory  of 
Philip  Morton.  He  involuntarily  stepped  back 
a  pace  or  two,  and  leaning  against  a  stack  of 
bricks  designed  for  repairs  in  the  Mission's  base- 
ment, alone  in  the  deserted  street,  he  gazed 
steadfastly  at  the  luminous  words. 

He  had  often  looked  at  that  tribute,  as  he  had 
upon  the  whole  Mission,  with  a  sense  of  thank- 
fulness that  his  life  was  counting.  But  now 
there  was  no  thankfulness  within  him.  Anger 
began  to  burn,  revolt  to  rise.  That  sainted  man 


THE  OPEN  ROAD  151 

there  was  the  cause  of  all  his  misery,  all  his  deg- 
radation. The  shame  of  his  trial,  the  loss  of  his 
four  prison  years,  the  refusal  of  work,  his  in- 
sults, his  lost  strength,  his  lost  character,  his  rag- 
ged clothes,  his  starving,  his  uttermost  poverty, 
his  uttermost  despair — all  these  rushed  upon  him 
in  one  hot  turbulent  flood  of  rebellion.  Of  all 
these  inflictions  that  man  was  directly  the  cause ! 
And  more — that  man  had  made  him  a  thief! 
And  yet  that  man  was  worshipped  as  a  saint 
—while  he,  he  was  a  starving  outcast! 

His  resentment  culminated  in  a  wild  impulse. 
His  right  hand  clutched  one  of  the  bricks  on 
which  it  rested,  and  he  took  a  quick  step  for- 
ward. The  brick  crashed  through  Morton's 
glowing  name. 


BOOK  III 

TOWARD   THE   LIGHT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   MAYOR   OF   AVENUE  A 

THREE  or  four  blocks  east  of  the  Bowery 
and  lying  north  of  the  Jewish  quarter  is  a 
little  region  somewhat  less  crowded,  somewhat 
quieter,  somewhat  more  clean,  than  the  rest  of 
the  tenement  country  that  lies  about  it.  It  is 
held  by  Germans — Americanised  Germans.  But 
Poles  and  Magyars,  Jews  of  Roumania,  Hun- 
gary and  Russia,  are  edging  their  way  into  it; 
such  frequent  signs  as  "Gyogyszertdr,"  which, 
evil  as  it  strikes  the  eye,  signifies  nothing  more 
malignant  than  "drugstore,"  announce  this  inva- 
sion even  to  casual  passers-by.  Some  day  the 
region  will  know  the  children  of  Germany  no 
more ;  it  will  be  a  Babel  of  the  tongues  of  central 
Europe.  But  as  yet,  if  you  walk  along  its  four 
avenues,  A,  B,  C  and  D,  all  lined  with  little 
shops,  or  lounge  about  its  shady  Tompkin's 
Square,  you  will  see  many  a  face  that  will  carry 
your  memory  back  to  Berlin  and  Cologne  and 
the  beer-gardens  and  Sunday  promenades  of 
their  work-people  and  petty  bourgeois. 

152 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A   153 

It  was  the  evening  after  David's  adventure 
with  Kate  Morgan.  From  the  snowy  air  of 
broad  Avenue  A  a  good-natured  crowd  was  turn- 
ing into  a  gilded  entrance,  over  which  incandes- 
cent lights  pricked  the  words  "Liberty  Assembly 
Hall."  The  crowd  was  chiefly  German,  but  in 
it  were  many  of  the  newer  peoples  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. There  were  broad  husbands  and 
broad  wives ;  children  led  by  hand,  babies  carried 
in  arms ;  young  people  in  couples  and  in  hilarious 
groups;  solitary  and  furtive  men  and  women. 
Most  were  in  their  finest,  and  some  of  the  finery 
would  not  have  made  the  opera  ashamed;  but 
many  were  dressed  in  shabbiness — though  they, 
too,  wore  their  best. 

David,  who  had  wandered  into  Avenue  A,  as 
he  often  did  in  his  aimless  night  walks,  paused 
momentarily  and  listelessly  watched  the  in-going 
stream  of  people.  A  New  Year's  ball,  he  de- 
cided; but  the  word  "Mayor"  recurred  so  often 
in  the  bits  of  conversation  he  overheard  that  his 
inert  curiosity  prompted  him  to  draw  near  a 
friendly-looking  man  who  stood  without  the  en- 
trance. 

"What's  going  on  in  there? "  he  asked. 

"Installing  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A,"  the  man 
returned. 

David  had  vaguely  heard  of  the  "Mayors" 
who  exercise  an  unofficial  authority  in  several 
districts  of  New  York.  "How's  the  Mayor 
chosen?  "  he  asked.  "By  election?  " 

"No.  Carl  Hoffman's  the  most  popular  man 
on  the  Avenue;  he's  got  coin  and  influence;  we 
all  want  him.  That's  how  it  is." 

"What  does  he  do?" 


154  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"If  you  need  a  dollar,  and  ain't  got  it,  you  go 
to  Carl.  If  a  poor  woman  ain't  got  any  coal, 
she  lets  Carl  know  and  she's  got  it.  If  you're 
dispossessed  or  in  trouble  with  the  police,  Carl 
fixes  you  up.  If  you  can't  get  work,  you  go  see 
Carl.  He's  the  poor  man's  friend — everybody's 
friend." 

For  several  moments  David  was  silent.  Then 
he  asked  abruptly,  "Is  this  a  private  ceremony?  " 

"Oh,  no;  go  on  in,  if  you  want  to." 

David  joined  the  entering  crowd,  mounted  a 
broad  flight  of  stairs,  passed  through  a  short 
hallway,  and  came  into  a  large  hall.  Every 
chair  was  taken  and  people  stood  in  the  aisles  and 
along  the  sides.  Three  electric-light  chandeliers, 
wound  in  bunting  and  loaded  with  glass  pend- 
ants, were  each  a  glittering  sun.  The  maroon 
walls  were  relieved  by  raised  gold-and-white 
scroll  work,  and  by  alternate  mirrors  and  oil- 
paintings  set  into  the  plastering.  These  paint- 
ings were  Tyrolean  scenes,  cascades  and  moon- 
lit seas — such  as  the  art-fostering  department 
store  supplies  at  a  dollar  or  two,  golden  frame 
included. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  hall  was  a  stage, 
draped  with  American  flags.  At  the  stage's 
back  a  band,  in  purple  and  gold  braid,  was  blow- 
ing out  its  brass  instruments;  and  at  the  stage's 
front,  beneath  "OUR  MAYOR"  in  evergreen 
letters  that  hung  from  the  proscenium  arch,  sat 
four  rotund  men  in  a  row. 

David  slipped  into  a  corner  at  the  rear,  where 
his  shabbiness  saw  more  of  its  own  kind.  A  mo- 
ment later  "The  Watch  on  the  Rhine"  thundered 
from  the  stage  and  rolled  among  the  Alps  and 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A    155 

the  cascades  and  over  the  moon-lit  seas.  Then 
"The  Star-Spangled  Banner"  sent  forth  its  re- 
verberations, and  when  its  last  echo  had  been 
lost  far  down  an  Alpine  gorge,  the  most  rotund 
of  the  four  rotund  men — they  were  the  Mayors 
of  Avenues  A,  B,  C  and  D,  a  neighbour  told 
David — stepped  to  a  table  and  rapped  for  order. 
He  assumed  his  most  impressive  attitude,  gazed 
slowly  over  the  polyglot  audience,  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  began  in  a  sonorous  voice  that,  now 
swelling,  now  softening,  was  the  perfect  serv- 
ant of  his  eloquence. 

"  It  is  not  within  the  power  of  human  speech 
to  express  how  much  I,  as  Mayor  of  Avenue  B, 
feel  the  great  honour  of  acting  as  master  of 
ceremonies  on  this  brilliant  and  distinguished  oc- 
casion, graced  by  so  much  fairness  of  the  softer 
sex,  made  by  the  Creator  as  the  greatest  reward 
and  adornment  of  life,  when  your  honourable 
Mayor  is  to  be  installed  to  serve  his  eleventh  suc- 
cessive and  successful  term."  But  despite  the 
impotence  of  speech,  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  B. 
filled  ten  minutes  in  an  attempt  to  suggest 
faintly  the  contents  of  his  prideful  breast. 
Then  he  swept  onward  into  a  eulogy  of  the 
Mayor  of  Avenue  A,  ending  with,  "And  now, 
Carl  Hoffman,  rise  and  receive  the  oath  of  of- 
fice." 

Cheers  and  hand-clapping  echoed  through  the 
Alps.  The  tallest  of  the  four  Mayors  stepped 
forward.  The  applause  doubled  and  the  band 
thundered  into  "Hail  the  Conquering  Hero." 
The  Mayor  of  Avenue  A  bowed  and  smiled  and 
smiled  and  bowed,  and  swept  his  arm,  now  to 
this  side,  now  to  that,  in  magnificent  salutation. 


156  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

His  face  was  inflated  with  good  feeding,  and 
was  as  smooth  as  a  child's  balloon;  a  few  hairs 
lay  in  pencil  lines  across  his  shiny  head;  from 
pocket  to  pocket  athwart  his  snow-white  vest 
hung  a  heavy  golden  chain — in  lieu  of  a  hoop, 
one  could  fancy,  to  hold  fast  the  bulging  flesh. 
It  was  well  that  his  face  was  broad;  a  thin  face 
would  have  cramped  the  wide,  shining  smile  he 
held  upon  his  uproaring  constituency. 

When  the  tumult  had  somewhat  abated,  the 
master  of  ceremonies,  his  portly  dignity  replaced 
by  portly  lightsomeness,  caught  the  Mayor's 
arm.  "Here  he  is,  ladies  and  gents !"  he  shouted. 
"Look  at  him!  The  champion  heavyweight, 
catch-as-catch-can  philanthropist  of  New  York. 
I  am  authorized  to  challenge  any  other  philan- 
thropist of  his  class  in  the  city  for  a  match,  the 
gate  receipts  to  the  winner,  and  a  thousand  dol- 
lars side  bet!" 

The  crowd  again  broke  loose.  A  deep,  gruff, 
joyous  voice  rose  from  the  Mayor's  interior. 
"Moxie,  get  your  wife  to  sew  a  button  on  your 
mouth  1" 

The  hall  was  one  gleeful  roar  at  this  sally. 

"Raise  your  right  hand,"  said  the  Mayor  of 
Avenue  B,  when  there  was  partial  quiet.  "Now 
repeat  after  me:  I,  Carl  Hoffman,  do  hereby 
promise  to  the  best  of  my  ability — " 

"Why,  sure!"  approved  the  deep  voice. 

"To  be  a  friend  to  any  man,  woman  or  child 
that  needs  a  friend.  So  help  me  God !" 

"Sure  thing!"  responded  a  hearty  rumble. 

The  crowd  once  more  applauded,  and  David 
noted  that  the  hands  which  clapped  longest  were 
feminine. 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A   157 

The  Mayor  of  Avenue  A  beamed  upon  the 
audience.  "That's  me,"  he  said,  with  a  grand 
upward  sweep  of  his  right  arm.  "I  don't  need 
to  tell  you  what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  I  been  doin' 
it  for  ten  years.  I  guess  my  record'll  do  all  the 
talkin'  that's  needed.  But  this  much  I'll  say  for 
myself:  If  anybody  durin'  this  new  year  needs 
a  friend  and  he  don't  chase  himself  around  to 
the  Pan- American  Cafe  and  ask  for  Carl  Hoff- 
man— well,  he  deserves  a  lot  more  trouble  than 
he's  got!" 

He  went  on  and  told  how  glad  he  was  to  see 
his  friends,  and  how  proud  he  was  to  be  their 
Mayor,  but  through  it  all  David  was  hearing 
only  the  oath  of  office  and  the  Mayor's  first  few 
sentences;  and  when  later  the  ushers  began  to 
clear  away  the  chairs  for  dancing,  and  David 
slipped  down  to  the  street  and  walked  homeward 
through  the  swirling  snow,  he  still  thought  only 
of  the  Mayor's  offer  to  the  man  who  needed  a 
friend. 

The  next  day  at  eleven  o'clock — he  had  fig- 
ured the  morning  rush  would  be  over  by  then — 
David  approached  the  Pan-American  Cafe. 
On  the  cafe's  one  side  was  a  delicatessen  store, 
displaying  row  on  row  of  wurst  to  entice  the 
Germans  within,  and  on  the  other  side  a  costum- 
er's  shop,  its  windows  filled  with  suits  of  armour, 
night-mare  masks,  and  gorgeous  seventeenth- 
century  court  gowns  of  sateen,  spangles  and 
mosquito  netting.  The  long  glass  front  of  the 
cafe  was  hung  with  holiday  greens,  among  which 
appropriate  signs  informed  the  street  that  a 
Hungarian  orchestra  played  nightly,  that  real 
German  beer  and  indubitable  Rhenish  wine  were 


158  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

purchasable  within,  and  that  a  superlatively  good 
dinner  was  to  be  had  for  only  thirty  cents. 

David  came  to  a  pause  at  the  cafe's  storm- 
door.  Doubts  and  fears  that  had  been  rising 
now  stampeded  him:  the  Mayor's  talk  was  only 
platform  talk;  the  Mayor  was  doubtless  like  all 
others  who  had  refused  him,  insulted  him.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  avenue,  passing  and  re- 
passing  the  cafe  and  the  narrow  little  shops  that 
edged  the  sidewalk.  Then  he  told  himself  that 
he  had  nothing  to  lose;  another  refusal  would 
be  merely  another  refusal.  He  summoned  back 
his  courage,  delivered  himself  into  its  hands,  and 
entered. 

He  found  himself  in  a  wide,  long  room,  whose 
green  walls  were  hung  with  signs  of  breweries 
and  with  placards  announcing  the  balls  of  "The 
Carl  Hoffman  Association,"  "The  Twin  Broth- 
ers," "The  Lady  Orchids,"  and  a  dozen  other 
social  organisations  of  the  neighbourhood.  Six 
rows  of  tables,  some  marble-topped,  some  linen- 
covered,  with  chairs  stacked  upon  them,  stretched 
the  length  of  the  room.  Among  these  black- 
jacketed  waiters,  armed  with  long  mops,  were 
scrubbing  the  linoleum-covered  floor. 

One  of  the  waiters  quickly  cleared  the  chairs 
from  a  table  and  came  forward  to  meet  David. 
"Nothing  to  eat,  thank  you,"  David  said.  "I 
want  to  see  Mr.  Hoffman." 

"Sorry — he's  out.  But  he's  likely  to  be  in  any 
minute.  Just  sit  down.  No,  wait — there  he  is 
now." 

David  looked  about.  Coming  in  from  the 
street  was  the  ample  form  of  the  Mayor  of  Ave- 
nue A,  his  cheeks  pink  with  the  cold.  "Got  four 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A   159 

discharged  and  paid  two  fines,"  the  Mayor  an- 
nounced to  the  waiters  who  had  all  looked  up  ex- 
pectantly. "And  when  I  got  'em  out  o'  the 
court-room  I  lined  'em  up  and  gave  'em  gentle 
hell.  They'll  keep  sober  for  awhile — yes,  sir!" 

He  turned  to  David.  "Why  some  decent  men 
ain't  never  sure  the  New  Year's  really  begun  till 
they've  poured  themselves  neck-full  o*  whiskey 
— mebbe  the  God  that  made  'em  understands, 
but  Carl  Hoffman  certainly  don't." 

David  admitted  that  no  more  did  he,  and 
then  asked  for  a  few  minutes'  talk — in  private. 

"Hey,  John,  take  these  things,"  and  the  Mayor 
burdened  David's  waiter  with  overcoat,  muffler 
and  hat ;  and  David  saw  that  a  waistcoat  of  gar- 
landed silk  had  replaced  the  white  one  of  last 
night.  "And,  say,  boys,"  he  shouted  to  the  oth- 
ers, "suppose  you  let  the  rest  o'  that  scrubbin' 
go  for  a  bit  and  get  busy  at  somethin'  out  in  the 
kitchen." 

He  led  David  to  a  rear  corner  where,  enclosed 
by  heavy  red  ropes,  was  the  platform  from  which 
the  Hungarian  orchestra  administered  its  night- 
ly music.  They  lifted  the  chairs  from  a  table 
and  sat  down  facing  each  other. 

"Well,  now,  what  can  I  do  for  you?"  the 
Mayor  asked. 

David  did  not  give  his  courage  time  to  escape. 
"I  was  at  your  inauguration  last  night,"  he  be- 
gan, quickly,  "and  I  heard  you  say  that  if  any 
man  needed  help — " 

"The  poor  man's  friend — that's  me,"  broke  in 
the  Mayor  with  a  quick  nod,  folding  his  plump 
hands,  on  one  of  which  burnt  a  great  diamond, 
upon  the  table. 


160  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"And  the  poor  man — that's  me,"  said  David. 

"Well,  you've  come  to  the  right  doctor. 
What's  ailin'  you?" 

The  Mayor's  eyes  became  sharp,  and  his  face 
became  as  stern  as  its  pink  fulness  would  permit. 
"But  one  word  first.  Some  people  think  I'm  an 
easy  mark.  I  ain't.  I've  got  two  rules:  never 
to  give  a  nickel  to  a  man  that  don't  deserve  it, 
and  never  to  give  the  icy  mitt  to  the  man  that 
deserves  the  warm  hand.  I  guess  I  ain't  never 
broke  either  rule.  A  grafter  ain't  got  no  more 
chance  with  me  than  a  lump  o'  lard  in  a  f ryin' 
pan.  I  ain't  sayin'  these  things  to  hurt  your 
feelin's,  friend.  Only  just  to  let  you  know  that 
if  you  ain't  all  on  the  level  you're  wastin'  your 
precious  time.  If  you  are  on  the  level — fire 
away.  I'm  your  man." 

This  was  rather  disconcerting.  "I  can  only 
tell  you  the  truth,"  said  David. 

"It  wouldn't  do  you  no  good  to  tell  nothin' 
else,"  the  Mayor  said  dryly.  "I  can  generally 
tell  when  the  chicken  in  a  chicken  pie  is  corned 
beef." 

David  gathered  his  strength.  "I  shall  tell  you 
everything.  To  begin  with,  I've  been  a  thief- 

"A  thief!"  the  Mayor  ejaculated.  He  stared. 
"Tales  o'  woe  always  begin  with  the  best  thing 
a  fellow  can  say  about  himself.  If  you  start 
off  with  bein'  a  thief,  Lord  man,  what'll  you  be 
when  you  get  through!" 

"I'm  beginning  with  the  worst.  I'm  out  of 
prison  about  four  months.  I  was  sent  up  for — 
for  stealing  money  from  a  mission — from  St. 
Christopher's  Mission — four  or  five  years  ago." 

Again  the  Mayor  stared,  and  again  his  face 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A    161 

took  on  its  stern  look.  "So  you're  that  man!" 
he  said  slowly.  "I  remember  about  it.  The 
Mission  ain't  far  from  here.  Well,  friend,  one 
o'  my  waiters'd  fire  me  out  o'  here  for  disorderly 
conduct  if  I  told  you  in  plain  English  what  I 
think  o'  that  trick.  But  it  was  a  dirty,  low- 
down  piece  o'  business,  and  what  came  to  you 
is  only  a  little  part  o'  what  you  should  'a'  got." 

David  rose.  It  was  as  he  had  expected — an- 
other refusal.  "I  see  you  care  to  do  nothing  for 
me.  Good  morning." 

"Did  I  say  so?  Set  down.  You're  talkin' 
the  truth — that's  somethin'.  At  least  it  don't 
sound  much  like  one  o'  them  fancy  little  lies  a 
fellow  makes  up  to  make  a  good  impression. 
Well,  what  d'you  want  from  me?" 

David  sat  down.  He  spoke  quickly,  desper- 
ately. "I  came  back  from  prison  determined  to 
live  honestly.  I've  been  trying  for  four  months 
to  get  work.  No  one  will  have  me.  I  won't  tell 
you  what  I've  been  through.  I  must  have  work, 
if  I'm  to  live  at  all.  I've  come  to  you  because  I 
thought  you  might  help  me  get  work — any  kind 
of  work." 

For  a  minute  or  more  the  Mayor  silently 
studied  David's  thin  features.  Then  he  said 
abruptly:  "Excuse  me  for  leavin'  your  trou- 
bles, but  I  been  out  in  this  cold  air  and  I'm  as 
empty  as  my  hat.  I've  got  to  have  a  bite  to  eat, 
or  I'll  all  cave  in.  And  you'll  have  some  with 
me.  I  don't  like  to  eat  alone. 

"Oh,  John!"  the  deep  voice  roared  out.  "Say, 
John,  fetch  us  some  eggs.  How'll  you  have 
your  eggs?  Scrambled?  Scrambled  eggs,  John, 
bacon,  rolls  and  coffee  for  two. 


162  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Now  back  to  your  troubles,  friend."  He 
shook  his  head  slowly.  "You're  up  against  a 
stiff  proposition.  There  ain't  much  of  a  de- 
mand for  ex-crooks  right  now." 

He  once  more  began  to  scrutinise  David's 
face.  "Don't  let  this  bother  you,  friend;  I'm 
just  seein'  what's  inside  you,"  he  said,  and  con- 
tinued his  stare. 

One  minute  passed,  two  minutes,  and  that 
fixed  gaze  did  not  shift.  David  grew  weak  with 
suspense.  He  knew  he  was  on  trial,  and  that 
the  next  moment  would  hear  his  sentence. 

Suddenly  the  Mayor  thrust  a  big  hand  across 
the  table  and  grasped  David's.  "It  ain't  the  icy 
mitt  for  you.  Jobs  are  scarce,  but — let's  see. 
What  kind  o'  work  have  you  done?  I  remem- 
ber readin'  about  you ;  wasn't  you  a  professor,  or 
somethin'  in  that  line  o'  business?" 

David  swam  in  a  vertigo  of  vast  relief;  his 
hand  instinctively  clutched  the  edge  of  the  table ; 
the  Mayor's  face  looked  blurred,  far  away 
.  .  "I  was  a  writer  .  .  .  for  maga- 
zines." 

"My  pull  wouldn't  help  a  lot  with  the  literary 
push."  The  Mayor's  eyes  again  became  keen. 
"And  I  suppose  you  now  want  somethin'  o'  the 
same  sort — somethin'  fancy?" 

The  dizziness  was  subsiding.  "Anything — 
so  it's  work!" 

The  Mayor  meditated  a  moment.  "Well,  I 
only  know  o'  one  job  just  now,  and  you  wouldn't 
have  it." 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  David,  tensely. 

"The  agent  o'  the  house  where  I  live  told  me 
a  couple  o'  days  ago  he  wanted  a  new  janitor." 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A    163 

"I'll  take  it!" 

"Sweepin5 — scrubbin' — sortin'  rubbish — every- 
body cussin'  you — twelve  dollars  a  month." 

The  wages  made  David  hesitate.  He  calcu- 
lated. "I'll  take  it — if  the  agent  will  have  me." 

"He'll  have  you.  Rogers's  got  a  special  inter- 
est in  chaps  that're  makin'  the  fight  you're 
makin'." 

David  half  rose.  "Hadn't  I  better  see  him 
at  once?"  he  asked,  anxiously.  "The  job  may 
be  taken  any  minute." 

"Set  down,  young  man.  That  job  ain't  goin' 
to  run  away.  Here  comes  breakfast.  I'll  go 
with  you  when  we're  through.  Gee,  I  could  eat 
a  house." 

David  made  no  boasts,  but  when  he  rose  from 
his  first  meal  since  the  midnight  supper  with 
Kate  Morgan  thirty-three  hours  before,  he  had 
effaced  his  share  of  the  breakfast.  He  noted 
that  the  Mayor's  portion  had  hardly  been 
touched,  and  the  Mayor  saw  he  observed  this. 
"I  had  a  sudden  turn  o'  the  stomach,"  the  Mayor 
explained.  "I  never  know  when  it's  goin'  to 
let  me  eat,  or  when  it's  goin'  to  say  there's 
nothin'  doin'." 

They  walked  away  through  a  deep  cross  street 
of  red  tenements  with  fire-escapes  climbing  the 
walls  like  stark,  grotesque  vines.  David  was 
filled  with  dread  lest  he  might  find  the  position 
already  occupied.  He  wanted  to  run.  'But  de- 
spite his  suspense  he  had  to  notice  that  the  Mayor 
was  smiling  at  all  the  women  on  both  sides  of 
the  street,  and  that  every  pretty  one  who  passed 
was  followed  by  a  look  over  the  Mayor's 
shoulder. 


164,  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

At  the  end  of  five  minutes  they  turned  into  a 
tenement  of  the  better  sort,  on  the  large  front 
window  of  whose  first  floor  David  read  in  gilt 
letters,  "John  Rogers — Real  Estate." 

"Here's  where  I  live — on  the  floor  above," 
said  the  Mayor.  "You  just  wait  here  in  the  hall 
a  minute  or  two  while  I  have  a  chat  with  Rog- 
ers." 

The  Mayor  entered  the  office,  and  David 
paced  the  narrow  hallway.  Would  he  get  the 
job?  No — this  Rogers  would  never  hire  a  thief. 
Anyhow,  even  if  Rogers  would,  someone  else 
had  the  job  already.  It  couldn't  be  true  that  at 
last  he  was  to  gain  a  foothold — even  so  poor  a 
foothold.  No,  this  was  to  be  merely  one  more 
rejection. 

At  length  the  Mayor  came  out,  carefully 
smoothing  the  few  hairs  that  lined  his  crown  like 
a  sheet  of  music  paper.  "Rogers  is  waitin'  for 
you;  go  right  in.  See  you  soon.  Good-bye." 
He  shook  hands  and  went  out,  cautiously  replac- 
ing his  hat. 

David  entered,  palpitant.  The  office  was 
bare,  save  for  real  estate  maps  on  the  walls,  a 
few  chairs  and  a  desk.  Mr.  Rogers  turned  in 
his  swivel  chair  and  motioned  David  to  a  seat 
beside  him.  "Mr.  Hoffman  has  told  me  about 
you,"  he  said,  briefly,  and  for  a  moment  he  si- 
lently looked  David  over;  and  David,  for  his 
part,  did  the  same  by  the  man  whose  "yes"  or 
"no"  was  about  to  re-create  or  destroy  him.  Mr. 
Rogers  was  a  slight,  spectacled  man  with  dingy 
brown  hair  and  a  reddish  pointed  beard ;  and  his 
plain  wrinkled  clothes  were  instantly  suggestive 
of  mediocrity.  His  face  had  the  yellowish  pal- 


THE  MAYOR  OF  AVENUE  A    165 

lor  of  old  ivory,  and  its  apparent  stolidity  would 
have  confirmed  the  impression  of  his  clothes, 
had  there  not  gleamed  behind  his  spectacles  a 
pair  of  quick  watchful  eyes. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  about  yourself?" 
Mr.  Rogers  said,  quietly. 

"Ask  anything  you  please." 

"Mr.  Hoffman  has  told  me  of  your — unfor- 
tunate experience  of  the  last  four  or  five  years. 
Since  coming  out  you  have  made  a  real  effort 
at  finding  work?" 

David  outlined  the  struggles  of  the  past  four 
months.  Mr.  Rogers  heard  him  through  with- 
out show  of  emotion  other  than  an  increased 
brightness  of  the  eyes,  then  asked:  "Have  you 
not,  under  such  hard  circumstances,  been  tempted 
to  steal  again?" 

David  paled,  and  hesitated.  A  reformed 
thief  who  had  attempted  theft  no  later  than  yes- 
terday, would  certainly  not  be  employed.  He 
saw  his  chance,  so  near,  fade  suddenly  away. 
But  he  had  determined  upon  absolute  frankness. 

"Yes,"  he  admitted  in  a  low  tone.  Then  his 
voice  became  tremulous  with  appeal:  "But  I 
yielded  only  once!  I  was  in  the  act  of  stealing 
— but  I  stopped  myself.  I  could  not.  I  took 
nothing! — not  a  thing!" 

David  expected  to  see  the  yellow  face  harden, 
but  it  did  not  change.  "You  know  the  character 
of  the  work,"  Mr.  Rogers  resumed.  "It  is  not 
pleasant." 

David's  hope  rushed  back.  "That  makes  no 
difference  to  me!" 

"And  the  pay  is  small — only  twelve  dollars  a 
month  and  your  rent." 


166  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Yes !  Yes !     That's  all  right  1" 

"Then,"  concluded  the  low,  even  voice,  "if  it's 
convenient  to  you,  I  should  like  to  have  you  be- 
gin at  once." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SAVING  LEDGE 

DAVID,  in  a  kind  of  trance,  followed  Mr. 
Rogers  over  the  six-story  house,  hardly 
hearing  the  agent's  discourse  upon  his  duties  and 
the  tenants.  Twenty-four  families  and  a  con- 
siderable number  of  boarders  lived  in  the  tene- 
ment— in  all,  close  to  a  hundred  and  a  half  souls. 
They  were  mostly  Germans  and  Jews — tailors, 
furriers,  jewellers,  shop-keepers;  people  who 
were  beginning  to  gain  a  fair  footing  in  their 
adopted  country.  David's  work  was  to  be  much 
as  the  Mayor  had  outlined.  The  halls  were  to  be 
daily  swept  and  frequently  scrubbed,  minor  re- 
pairs to  be  executed,  the  furnace  to  be  attended 
to,  and  ashes,  waste-paper  and  kitchen-refuse  to 
be  separated  and  prepared  for  the  city's  ash  and 
garbage  wagons. 

The  tour  of  installation  ended,  David  started 
for  his  old  home  to  begin  the  removal,  armload 
at  a  time,  of  his  few  belongings.  As  he  walked 
among  the  school-hurrying  children,  over  snow 
grimed  by  ten  thousand  feet,  he  felt  dazed  for 
fear  that  this  world  of  hope  he  had  entered 
might  suddenly  vanish.  Failure  had  been  his  so 
constantly  that  this  beginning  of  success  seemed 
unreal.  He  dared  allow  himself  to  feel  only  a 
tentative  exultation. 

At  the  entrance  of  his  old  tenement  he  met 
167 


168  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Kate  Morgan  coming  out.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  she  had  glided  past  him  through  Mr.  Al- 
len's hall,  suit-case  in  hand.  He  stopped,  at  a 
loss  what  to  do  or  say,  wondering  how  she  would 
receive  him. 

"Good  afternoon,"  he  said,  heavily. 

She  paled,  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face  and 
passed  without  a  word.  With  a  pang  he  watched 
her  walk  stiffly  away.  Her  friendship,  save  for 
Tom's,  was  the  only  friendship  he  had  known 
since  he  had  left  prison.  Now  it  was  lost. 

An  hour  later,  as  he  was  coming  from  his  room 
with  his  last  armload,  he  met  her  again.  She 
sneered  in  his  face.  "Coward!"  she  snapped  out 
and  brushed  him  by.  He  called  after  her,  but 
she  marched  on  and  into  her  door  without  look- 
ing back. 

David  had  thought  his  "rent"  would  be  a  sin- 
gle room,  but  it  had  proved  to  be  a  five-room  flat 
in  the  basement.  In  the  front  room  of  this, 
during  the  odd  moments  his  afternoon's  work  al- 
lowed him,  he  arranged  his  belongings,  to  which 
Mr.  Rogers  had  added  a  bed,  a  table  and  a  cou- 
ple of  chairs.  When  all  was  in  order  he  found 
the  room  looked  bare,  beyond  his  needs.  After 
all,  his  "rent"  might  as  well  have  been  but  a 
single  room.  Little  good  to  him  were  the  four 
rooms  behind,  locked  and  vacant. 

Darkness  had  fallen  and  he  was  sitting  in  his 
room  wondering  how  he  would  live  through  the 
month  that  must  elapse  before  his  salary  would 
be  due,  when  Mr.  Rogers  came  in. 

"It  has  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  you  could 
use  a  little  ready  money,"  Mr.  Rogers  said  in 
his  low  voice,  and  he  laid  several  bills  upon 


THE  SAVING  LEDGE  169 

David's  table.  "There's  one  month's  wages  in 
advance."  And  before  David  had  recovered 
from  his  surprise,  Mr.  Rogers  was  out  of  the 
room. 

While  David  was  still  staring  at  this  money, 
there  was  another  knock.  He  opened  the  door 
upon  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A.  The  Mayor 
walked  in  and  lowered  himself  into  the  one  rock- 
ing-chair. 

"Well,  I  see  you've  landed  with  Rogers,"  he 
called  out,  as  though  David  were  a  block  away. 
"You'll  find  Rogers  quiet,  but  the  real  thing. 
He's  got  a  heart  that  really  beats." 

He  looked  about.  "Just  usin'  this  one  room,  I 
see.  What 're  you  doin'  with  the  others?" 

"Nothing." 

"Why  don't  you  rent  'em?" 

"D'youthinklcan?" 

"Can?  You  can't  help  it.  Why,  only  yes- 
terday a  family  was  askin'  me  to  help  'em  find  a 
cheap  flat.  Le's  see  how  much  them  four  rooms 
would  be  worth.  I  pay  thirty  a  month  up  on  the 
second  floor ;  this  might  fetch  sixteen  or  eighteen. 
You've  got  the  best  room;  take  that  off  and  say 
— well,  say  twelve  a  month.  How'd  that  suit 
you?" 

"If  I  could  only  get  it!" 

The  Mayor  drew  out  a  fat  wallet.  "That 
fixes  my  family  up,  then.  Here's  your  twelve." 

"You're  in  earnest?"  David  asked,  slowly. 

"Sure.     The  family'll  be  in  to-morrow." 

"But  I  can't  take  the  money  in  advance — and 
from  you." 

"It  ain't  my  money.  It's  theirs.  And  ad- 
vance 1 — nothin'!  Rent's  always  in  advance. 


170          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

And  if  I  don't  cinch  the  bargain  now,  some- 
body'll  come  along  and  offer  you  thirteen,  and 
then  where'll  I  be?  Here,  stick  this  in  your 
pants  and  shut  upl" 

David  took  the  money.  "Mr.  Hoffman,  I 
don't  know  how  I  can  ever  thank  you  for  your 
favours-T-" 

"Oh,  this  ain't  no  favour.  This's  business. 
But  if  you  think  it's  a  favour — weE,  some  day  I 
may  be  on  my  uppers.  Remember  it  then."  A 
pillowy  hand  drew  forth  his  watch,  lit  up  with 
diamonds.  "Well,  by  George,  if  I  don't  chase 
right  over  to  my  joint  I  won't  even  have  any  up- 
pers. My  blamed  waiters's  always  f  orgettin'  to 
water  the  soup !" 

When  he  was  alone  David  sat  with  eyes  look- 
ing at  his  fortune,  which  he  had  heaped  upon  the 
table,  and  with  mind  looking  at  the  situation  in 
which  he  now  found  himself.  Five  years  before 
he  would  have  regarded  this  janitor's  position 
much  as  a  man  on  a  green,  sun-lit  bank  of  a 
cliff -walled  torrent  would  regard  a  little  bare 
ledge  below  against  which  the  water  frothed  in 
anger — as  something  not  worth  even  a  casual 
thought.  But  he  had  been  in  that  stream,  which 
sweeps  its  prey  onward  to  destruction ;  his  hands 
had  slipped  from  its  smooth  walls;  and  just  as 
he  had  been  going  down  he  had  caught  the  little 
ledge  and  dragged  himself  upon  it — and  now 
this  bare  rock  to  him  was  the  world.  He  did  not 
think  of  the  green  fields  and  the  sun  above, 
toward  which  he  must  try  to  climb ;  he  could  only, 
as  it  were,  lie  gasping  upon  his  back,  and  marvel 
at  the  miracle  of  his  escape. 

He  was  still  sitting  so  when  there  was  still  an- 


THE  SAVING  LEDGE  171 

other  knock.  He  had  asked  his  landlady  to  send 
Tom  over  when  the  boy  returned,  and  as  he 
crossed  the  room  he  hoped  he  would  find  Tom  at 
the  door.  Sure  enough,  there  stood  the  boy. 
He  came  in  quietly,  with  hesitation,  for  during 
the  past  week  and  more  the  two  had  hardly 
spoken — they  had  merely  been  aware  of  one  an- 
other's existence. 

"What's  all  dis  mean?"  he  asked  slowly,  look- 
ing round  in  amazement. 

In  a  rush  of  spirits  David  clapped  his  hands 
on  Tom's  shoulders.  "It  means,  my  boy,  that 
we're  going  to  begin  to  live!  See  this  room? 
The  rent's  paid  for  as  long  as  we  stay  here. 
And  look  at  the  table!" 

Tom  looked  instead  at  David's  face.  "Gee, 
pard,  if  you  ain't  got  a  grin!"  he  cried.  Forth- 
with a  grin  appeared  on  his  own  face.  He 
turned  to  the  table — and  stared. 

"Say,  look  at  de  bank!"  he  gasped. 

"That's  something  to  eat,  Tom.  And  new 
clothes.  There's  twenty-four  dollars  in  that 
pile,  and  twenty-four  coming  in  every  month, 
with  no  rent  to  pay." 

"Don't  say  nuttin,  pard.  If  dis  is  a  dream, 
just  let  me  sleep.  But  what's  de  graft?  How 
did  you  get  next  to  all  dis?" 

David  related  his  day's  experience.  When  he 
had  ended  Tom  did  a  few  steps  of  a  vaudeville 
dance,  then  seized  David's  hand. 

"Well,  ain't  dis  luck!  It's  like  God  woke  up. 
But  what  you  goin'  to  do  wid  all  de  coin?" 

"Oh,  buy  railroads  and  such  things!" 

David  held  on  to  the  hand  the  boy  had  given 
him  and  took  the  other.  "Tom,"  he  said  gravely, 


172  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

looking  down  into  the  boy's  face,  "I've  got  an 
idea  neither  of  us  is  very  proud  of  all  the  things 
he's  done  lately.  D'you  think  so?" 

The  boy's  eyes  fell  to  the  floor. 

"I  shouldn't  care  to  tell  you  all  I've  done. 
Should  you  care  to  tell  me?" 

The  tangled  head  shook. 

"Well,  from  now  on  we're  going  to  be  straight 
— all  on  the  level.  Aren't  we?" 

Tom  looked  up.  "I  guess  we  are,  pard,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice. 

They  looked  steadily  into  each  other's  eyes 
for  a  moment.  Then  David  gave  Tom  a  quick 
push.  "On  with  your  hat,  my  boy !  Let's  see  if 
the  grocery  man  won't  take  some  of  this  money." 

After  their  dinner  had  been  bought,  eaten, 
and  the  dishes  cleared  away,  David  began  to 
tack  up  prints.  Tom  meditatively  watched  him 
for  several  minutes,  then  suddenly  announced: 

"I  seen  her  to-day." 

David  turned  sharply.  He  knew  the  answer, 
but  he  asked,  "Saw  who?" 

"You  know.  De  lady  what  I  fetched  up.  I 
seen  her  on  de  street." 

David  tried  to  appear  unconcerned.  "Did 
she  say  anything?" 

"She  asked  how  you  was." 

"What  did  you  tell  her?" 

"I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  I  was  afraid  o' 
queerin'  somet'ing  you  might  'a'  told  her.  I 
just  said  you  was  better." 

David  tacked  up  another  print,  during  which 
time  Tom  again  watched  him  thoughtfully. 
Then  Tom  asked,  abruptly : 

"She's  a  friend  o'  yourn,  ain't  she?" 


THE  SAVING  LEDGE  173 

"No." 

"I  fought  she  was!"  His  voice  was  disap- 
pointed. "Why  ain't  she?" 

"Well — I  guess  she  don't  like  me." 

"Don't  like  you!"  cried  Tom  indignantly. 
"Den  she's  had  a  bum  steer !"  He  thought.  "I 
wonder  what's  queered  her  agin'  you?" 

"Oh,  several  things,"  David  answered  vaguely. 
Then  obeying  an  impulse,  born  of  the  universal 
craving  for  sympathy,  he  went  on:  "For  one 
thing,  she  believes  I  put  you  up  to  stealing." 

"She  t'inks  you  knew  anyt'ing  about  dat!"  he 
cried,  springing  up  excitedly. 

"She  believes  you  were  stealing  regularly,  and 
that  it  was  all  done  under  my  direction." 

"Is  dat  de  way  she  sizes  up  de  facts?  Well, 
ain't  dat  just  like  a  woman!  Wouldn't  it  just 
freeze  your  eyeballs,  de  way  goils  do  t'ings! 

"But  see  here,  pard.  Swell  friends  can  do  a 
guy  a  lot  o'  good.  Why  don't  you  hang  on  to 
her?  Why  don't  you  put  her  wise?" 

"She  wouldn't  believe  me.  My  boy — "  the 
tone  tried  to  be  light — "when  the  world  is  cer- 
tain to  regard  your  truth  as  a  lie,  it's  just  as  well 
to  keep  still." 

David  went  on  with  his  tacking,  and  a  minute 
or  more  went  by  before  Tom  asked,  quietly: 
"But  wouldn't  you  like  her  to  know  de  facts? 
Wouldn't  you  like  her  to  be  your  friend?" 

"Oh,  yes — why  not?"  David  responded  in  his 
voice  of  affected  unconcern. 

Tom  gazed  steadily  at  David's  back,  his  thin 
face  wrinkled  with  thought.  At  length  his  head 
nodded,  and  he  said  to  himself  in  a  whisper: 
"So  she  t'inks  he  put  me  up  to  it,  does  she?" 


CHAPTER  III 

A  PROPHECY 

AT  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  a  few  days  later, 
a  fierce  battle  was  being  waged  in  the  base- 
ment room  that  was  the  Aldrich  home,  when  a 
knock  made  David  lower  his  defensive  fists. 

"Ah,  don't  stop,  pard,"  Tom  begged  of  his 
cornered  enemy.  "Let  'em  pound.  It's  just 
somebody  else  kickin'  about  de  heat." 

"We'll  only  stop  a  second.  Ask  what  they 
want,  and  say  I'll  attend  to  it  at  once." 

Tom,  grumbling  fiercely,  opened  the  door. 
"What's  de  matter?"  he  demanded.  "Ain't  you 
got  no  heat?" 

But  it  was  not  an  angry  tenant  who  stepped 
in  from  the  darkness  of  the  hall.  It  was  Helen 
Chambers.  She  was  flushed,  and  excitement 
quivered  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  from  one  pil- 
low-fisted belligerent  to  the  other,  and  said,  smil- 
ing tremulously: 

"I  had  thought  there  was  no  heat,  but  after 
looking  at  you  I've  decided  there's  plenty.  Is 
this  the  way  you  always  receive  complainants?" 

Tom  glanced  guiltily  at  David,  then  darted 
behind  Helen  and  through  the  door.  David 
gazed  at  her,  loose- jawed.  Suddenly  he  remem- 
bered his  shirt-sleeves. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  and  in  his  be- 
174. 


A  PROPHECY  175 

wilderment  he  tried  to  thrust  his  huge  fists  into 
his  coat. 

"Perhaps  you  can  do  that" — again  the  trem- 
ulous smile — "but  I  really  don't  think  you  can." 

"I  should  take  the  gloves  off,  of  course,"  he 
stammered.  He  frantically  unlaced  them, 
slipped  into  his  coat,  and  then  looked  at  her, 
throbbing  with  wonderment  as  to  why  she  had 
come. 

She  did  not  leave  him  in  an  instant's  doubt. 
She  stepped  toward  him  with  outstretched  hand, 
her  smile  gone,  on  her  face  eager,  appealing 
earnestness. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  your  forgiveness,"  she 
said  with  her  old,  direct  simplicity.  "I  believed 
that  you  and  the  boy  were — pardon  me  I — were 
stealing  together;  that  you  were  letting  yourself 
slip  downward.  This  afternoon  the  boy  came  to 
me  at  St.  Christopher's  and  told  me  the  real 
story.  I  could  hardly  wait  till  I  was  free  so  that 
I  could  hurry  to  you  and  ask  you  to  forgive 
me." 

"Forgive  you!"  David  said  slowly. 

"Forgive  me  for  my  unjust  judgment,"  she 
went  on,  a  quaver  in  her  voice.  "I  judged 
from  mere  appearance,  mere  guess-work.  I  was 
cold — horrid.  I  am  ashamed.  Forgive  me." 

Her  never-expected  coming,  her  never-ex- 
pected words,  rendered  him  for  the  moment 
speechless.  He  could  only  gaze  into  her  fresh 
face,  so  full  of  earnestness,  of  appeal. 

"You  do  not  forgive  me?"  she  asked. 

David  thrilled  at  the  tremulous  note  in  her 
voice.  "I  have  nothing  to  forgive.  You  could 
not  help  judging  as  you  did." 


176  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Her  deep  brown  eyes,  looking  straight  into 
his  face,  continued  the  appeal. 

"I  forgive  you,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply;  and  she  pressed 
his  hand. 

"And  I  came  for  something  else,"  she  went 
on,  "I  came  to  assure  you  of  my  friendship,  if  it 
can  mean  anything  to  you — to  tell  you  how  much 
I  admire  your  hrave  and  bitter  upward  struggle. 
I'd  be  so  happy  if  there  was  some  way  I  could 
help  you,  and  if  you'd  let  me." 

"You  want  to  help  me!"  was  all  he  could  say. 

"Yes.     Won't  you  let  me — please!" 

He  throbbed  with  exultation.  "Then  you  be- 
lieve I  am  now  honest!" 

"You  have  proved  that  you  are — proved  it  by 
the  way  you  have  resisted  temptation  during 
these  four  terrible  months." 

His  eyes  suddenly  sank  from  hers  to  the  floor. 
Her  words  had  brought  back  New  Year's  eve. 
She  had  come  to  him  with  friendship  because  she 
was  certain  of  his  unf alien  determination  to 
make  his  new  life  an  honest  life.  If  she  knew 
of  that  night  in  Allen's  house,  would  she  be  giv- 
ing him  this  praise,  this  offer? 

The  temptation  to  say  nothing  rose,  but  he 
could  not  requite  frankness  and  sincerity  such  as 
hers  with  the  lie  of  silence — he  could  not  accept 
her  friendship  under  false  pretenses.  He  looked 
up  and  gazed  at  her  steadily. 

"I  am  innocent  where  you  thought  me  guilty, 
but" — he  paused;  the  truth  was  hard — "but  I  am 
guilty  where  you  think  me  innocent." 

She  paled.  "What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked 
in  a  fearing  voice. 


A  PROPHECY  177 

"I  have  not  resisted  temptation." 

He  saw  that  his  words  had  hurt  her,  and  there 
was  a  flash  of  wonder  that  a  lapse  of  his  should 
give  her  pain.  An  appeal,  full  of  colour,  of 
feeling,  that  would  justify  himself  to  her  was 
rising  to  his  lips,  but  before  it  passed  them  he 
suddenly  felt  himself  so  much  the  wronged  that 
his  confession  came  forth  an  abrupt  outline  of 
his  acts,  spoken  with  no  shame. 

"I  had  been  starved,  rebuffed,  for  over  three 
months.  I  grew  desperate.  Temptation  came. 
I  yielded.  I  entered  a  house — entered  it  to  steal. 
But  I  did  not  steal.  I  could  not.  I  came  away 
with  nothing." 

He  paused.  His  guilt  was  out.  He  awaited 
her  judgment,  fearful  of  her  condemnation,  with 
resentment  ready  for  it  if  it  came. 

"Is  that  all!"  she  cried. 

Vast  relief  quivered  through  him.  "You 
mean  then  that—  He  hesitated. 

"That  you  have  been  fiercely  tempted,  but  you 
are  not  guilty." 

"You  see  it  so!" 

"Yes.  Had  you  conquered  temptation  on  the 
outer  side  of  the  door,  you  would  certainly  have 
been  guiltless.  Since  you  conquered  temptation 
on  the  inner  side  of  the  door,  I  cannot  see  that 
those  few  more  steps  are  the  difference  between 
guilt  and  innocence." 

They  were  both  silent  a  moment. 

"But  don't  you  want  to  tell  me  something 
about  yourself — about  your  plans?"  she  asked. 

The  friendship  in  her  voice,  in  her  frank  face, 
warmed  him  through.  "Certainly,"  he  said. 
"But  there's  very  little  to  tell." 


178  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  now  became  aware  that  all  the  while  they 
had  been  standing.  "Pardon  my  rudeness,"  he 
said,  and  set  a  chair  for  her  beside  the  table,  and 
himself  took  a  chair  opposite  her. 

"There  is  little  to  tell,"  he  repeated.  "I  am 
what  you  see — the  janitor  of  this  house."  As  he 
spoke  the  word  "janitor"  it  flashed  upon  him  that 
there  had  been  a  time  when,  in  his  wild  visions, 
he  had  thought  of  winning  this  woman  to  be  his 
wife.  He  flushed. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  you  have  other  plans — 
other  ambitions." 

"A  week  ago  my  ambition  was  to  find  work 
that  would  keep  me  alive,"  he  returned,  smiling. 
"I  have  just  attained  that  ambition.  I  have 
hardly  had  time  to  dream  new  dreams." 

"But  you  will  dream  them  again,"  she  said 
confidently. 

"I  had  them  when — when  I  came  back,  and  I 
suppose  they  will  return." 

"Yes.     Go  on!" 

He  had  thought,  in  his  most  hopeful  moments, 
that  some  day  she  might  regard  him  with  a  dis- 
tant friendliness,  but  he  had  never  expected  such 
an  interest  as  was  shown  in  her  eager,  peremp- 
tory tone.  "There  were  two  dreams.  One  was 
this :  I  wondered,  if  I  were  honest,  if  I  worked 
hard,  if  I  were  of  service  to  those  about  me,  could 
I,  after  several  years,  win  back  the  respect  of  the 
world,  or  its  semi-respect  ?  You  know  the  world 
is  so  thoughtless,  so  careless,  so  slow  to  forgive. 
And  I  wondered  if  perhaps,  after  several  years, 
I  could  win  back  the  respect  of  some  of  my  old 
friends?" 

"I  was  sure  that  was  one  dream,  one  plan," 


A  PROPHECY  179 

she  said,  quietly.  "For  myself "  She  gave 

him  her  hand. 

"Thank  you!"  he  said,  his  voice  low  and 
threaded  with  a  quaver. 

"And  though  the  world  is  thoughtless,  and 
slow  to  forgive,  and  though  the  struggle  will  be 
hard,  I'm  certain  that  you  are  going  to  succeed." 
Her  rich  voice  was  filled  with  quiet  belief. 
"And  the  other  dream?" 

"It's  presumptuous  in  me  to  speak  of  the  other 
dream,  for  to  work  for  its  fulfilment  would  re- 
quire all  the  things  I've  lost  and  many  things  I 
never  had — a  fair  name,  influence,  some  money, 
a  personality,  ability  of  the  right  sort.  Besides, 
the  dream  is  vague,  unshaped — only  a  dream.  It 
is  not  new,  and  it  is  not  even  my  own  dream. 
Thousands  have  dreamt  it,  and  many  are  striving 
to  turn  it  into  a  fact,  a  condition.  Yes,  it  would 
be  presumptuous  for  me  to  speak  of  it." 

"But  I'd  like  very  much  to  hear  about  it — if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Even  though  it  will  sound  absurd  from  me? 
Well,  if  you  wish  me  to." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  gather  his  thoughts. 
"One  thing  the  last  four  months  have  taught 
me,"  he  began,  "is  that  the  discharged  criminal 
has  little  chance  ever  to  be  anything  but  a  crim- 
inal. Many  come  out  hardened;  perhaps  the 
prison  hardened  them — I've  seen  many  a  young 
fellow,  who  had  his  good  points  when  he  entered, 
hardened  to  irreclaimable  criminality  by  prison 
associates  and  prison  methods.  These  have  no 
desire  to  live  useful  lives.  Some  come  out  with 
moderately  strong  resolutions  to  live  honestly, 
and  some  come  out  with  a  fierce  determination. 


180  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

If  these  last  two  classes  could  find  work  a  large 
proportion  of  them  would  develop  into  useful 
men.  But  instead  of  a  world  willing  to  stretch 
to  them  a  helping  hand,  what  do  they  find? 
They  find  a  world  that  refuses  them  the  slightest 
chance. 

"What  can  they  do?  They  persist  as  long  as 
their  resolution  lasts.  If  it  is  weak,  they  may 
give  up  in  a  few  days.  Then,  since  the  upward 
road  is  closed  against  them,  they  turn  into  the 
road  that  is  always  open,  always  calling — the 
road  of  their  old  ways,  of  their  old  friends. 
They  are  lost. 

"A  week  ago  I  was  all  bitterness,  all  rebellion, 
against  the  world  for  its  uncaring  destruction  of 
these  men.  I  said  the  world  pushed  these  men 
back  into  crime,  destroyed  them,  because  it  feared 
to  risk  its  worshipped  dollars.  I  feel  bitter  still, 
but  I  think  I  can  see  the  world's  excuse.  The 
world  says,  'For  any  vacancy  there  are  usually 
at  least  two  applicants;  I  choose  the  better,  and 
let  the  other  go.  It  is  a  natural  rule.  So  long 
as  man  thinks  first  of  his  own  interest  that  rule 
will  stand.  Against  such  a  rule  that  closes  the 
road  of  honesty,  what  chance  does  the  discharged 
convict  have  ?  None ! — absolutely  none ! 

"Since  the  world  will  not  receive  back  the 
thief,  since  there  is  no  saving  the  thief  once  he  has 
become  a  thief,  the  only  chance  whatever  for  him 
is  to  save  him  before  he  has  turned  to  thievery — 
while  he  is  a  child. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,  Miss  Chambers,  how 
saving  we  are  of  all  material  things,  and  what 
squanders,  oh,  what  criminal  squanderers !  we  are 
of  human  lives?  How  far  more  rapidly  the 


A  PROPHECY  181 

handling  of  iron,  and  hogs,  and  cotton,  has  de- 
veloped than  the  handling  of  men!  The  pig 
comes  out  meat  and  soap  and  buttons  and  what 
not,  and  the  same  rigid  economy  is  observed  with 
all  other  materials.  Nothing  is  too  small,  too 
poor,  to  be  saved.  It  is  all  too  precious! 

"There  is  no  waste!  But  can  we  say  the  same 
about  the  far  more  important  business  of  pro- 
ducing citizens?  Look  at  the  men  in  our  pris- 
ons. Wasted  material.  Had  they  been  treated, 
when  they  were  the  raw  material  of  childhood, 
with  even  a  part  of  the  intelligence  and  care  that 
is  devoted  to  turning  the  pig  into  use,  into  profit, 
they  would  have  been  manufactured  into  good 
citizens.  And  these  men  in  prisons  are  but  a 
fraction  of  the  great  human  waste.  Think  of 
the  uncaught  criminals,  of  the  stunted  children, 
of  the  human  wreckage  floating  about  the  city, 
of  the  women  who  live  by  their  shame! — all 
wasted  human  material.  And  all  the  time  more 
children  are  growing  up  to  take  the  places  of 
these  when  they  are  gone.  Why,  if  any  business 
man  should  run  his  factory  as  we  conduct  our 
business  of  producing  citizens,  he'd  be  bankrupt 
in  a  year! 

"This  waste  can  be  saved.  I  do  not  mean  the 
men  now  in  prison,  nor  the  women  in  the  street, 
nor  those  on  whom  ill  conditions  have  fastened 
disease — though  even  they  need  not  be  wholly 
lost.  I  mean  their  successors,  the  growing  chil- 
dren. If  the  production  of  citizens  were  a  busi- 
ness run  for  profit — which  in  a  sense  it  is,  for 
each  good  citizen  is  worth  thousands  of  dollars 
to  the  country — and  were  placed  in  the  hands  of 
a  modern  business  man,  then  you  would  see! 


182  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Had  he  been  packer,  steel  manufacturer,  gold- 
smith, not  a  bristle,  not  an  ounce  of  steel,  not  the 
infinitesimal  filings  of  gold,  escaped  him.  Do 
you  think  that  he  would  let  millions  of  human 
beings,  worth,  to  put  a  sordid  money  value  upon 
their  heads,  ten  thousand  dollars  apiece,  be 
wasted?  Never!  He  would  find  the  great  busi- 
ness leak  and  stop  it.  He  would  save  all. 

"And  how  save?  I  am  a  believer  in  heredity, 
yes;  but  I  believe  far  more  in  the  influence  of 
surroundings.  Let  a  child  be  cradled  in  the  gut- 
ter and  nursed  by  wickedness ;  let  wickedness  be 
its  bedfellow,  playfellow,  workf ellow,  its  teacher, 
its  friend — and  what  do  you  get?  The  prisons 
tell  you.  Let  the  same  child  grow  up  surrounded 
by  decency,  and  you  have  a  decent  child  and  later 
a  decent  man.  Could  the  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  children  who  are  developing  towards 
criminality,  towards  profligacy,  towards  a 
stunted  maturity,  be  set  amid  good  conditions, 
the  leak  would  be  stopped,  or  almost — the  great 
human  waste  would  be  brought  to  an  end.  They 
would  be  saved  to  themselves,  and  saved  to  their 
country. 

"Nothing  of  all  this  is  new  to  you,  Miss  Cham- 
bers. I  have  said  so  much  because  I  wanted  to 
make  clear  what  has  become  my  great  dream — 
the  great  dream  of  so  many.  I  should  like  to 
do  my  little  part  towards  rousing  the  negligent, 
indifferent  world  to  the  awfulness  of  this  waste 
— towards  making  it  as  economical  of  its  people 
as  it  is  of  its  pigs  and  its  pig-iron.  That  is  my 
dream." 

He  had  begun  quietly,  but  as  his  thought  mas- 
tered him  his  face  had  flushed,  his  eyes  had 


A  PROPHECY  183 

glowed,  and  he  had  stood  up  and  his  words  had 
come  out  with  all  the  passion  of  his  soul.  Hel- 
en's eyes  had  not  for  an  instant  shifted  from  his ; 
her's  too  were  aglow,  and  glow  was  in  her  cheeks. 

For  several  moments  after  he  had  stopped  she 
gazed  at  him  with  something  that  was  very  like 
awe ;  then  she  said,  barely  above  a  whisper :  "You 
are  going  to  do  it!" 

"No,  no,"  David  returned  quickly,  bitterly.  "I 
have  merely  builded  out  of  words  the  shape  of  an 
impossible  dream.  Look  at  what  I  dream;  and 
then  look  at  me,  a  janitor! — look  at  my  record!" 

"You  are  going  to  do  it!"  she  repeated,  her 
voice  vibrant  with  belief.  "The  dream  is  not  im- 
possible. You  are  doing  something  towards  its 
fulfilment  now — the  boy,  you  know.  You  are 
going  to  grow  above  your  record,  and  above  this 
position — far  above!  You  are  going  to  grow 
into  great  things.  What  you  have  been  saying 
has  been  to  me  a  prophecy  of  that." 

He  grew  warmer  and  warmer  under  her  words 
— under  the  gaze  of  her  brown  eyes  glowing  into 
his — under  the  disclosure  made  by  her  left  hand, 
on  which  he  had  seen  there  was  no  engagement 
ring.  Her  praise,  her  sympathy,  her  belief, 
thrilled  him;  and  his  purpose,  set  free  in  words, 
had  given  him  courage,  had  lifted  him  up.  As 
from  a  swift,  dizzy  growth,  he  felt  strong,  big. 

A  burning  impulse  swept  into  him  to  tell  her 
his  innocence.  For  a  moment  his  innocence 
trembled  on  his  lips.  But  the  old  compelling 
reasons  for  silence  rushed  forward  and  joined 
battle  with  the  desire  of  his  love.  His  hands 
clenched,  his  body  tightened,  he  stared  at  her 
tensely. 


184          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

At  length  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  swallowed 
with  difficulty.  "May  the  prophecy  come  true!" 
his  dry  lips  said. 

"It  will!" 

She  studied  him  thoughtfully  for  a  minute  or 
more.  "Something  has  been  occurring  to  me 
and  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it."  She  rose. 
"But  I  must  be  going.  Won't  you  walk  with 
me  to  the  car,  and  let  me  talk  on  the  way?" 

A  minute  later  they  were  in  the  street,  from 
which  the  day  had  all  but  faded  and  into  which 
the  shop-windows  and  above  them  the  tier  on  tier 
of  home- windows,  were  stretching  their  meagre 
substitute.  David's  blood  was  leaping  through 
him,  and  in  him  were  the  lightness  and  the  all- 
conquering  strength  of  youth.  The  crisp  winter 
air  that  thrust  its  sting  into  many  of  the  stream 
of  home-coming  workers,  tinglingly  pricked 
him  with  the  joy  of  living. 

"Have  you  thought  again  of  writing?"  she 
asked. 

"About  as  much  as  a  man  who  has  leaped  from 
a  house-top  to  try  his  wings,  thinks  again  of  fly- 
ing." 

"I  am  speaking  seriously.  If  the  impulse  to 
write  should  return,  would  you  have  time  for 
writing?  " 

"I  think  I  could  manage  three  or  four  hours  a 
day." 

"Then  why  not  try?" 

"The  ground  where  one  alights  is  so  hard,  Miss 
Chambers!" 

"But  perhaps  you  did  not  soar  the  other  time 
because  you  had  over-worn  your  wings.  Per- 
haps they  have  grown  strong  and  developed  dur- 


A  PROPHECY  185 

ing  their  rest.  Many  of  us  used  to  believe  they 
would  carry  you  far  up.  Why  not  try?  You 
have  nothing  to  lose.  And  if  you  succeed — then 
the  dream  you  have  told  me  of  will  begin  to  come 
true." 

For  several  paces  David  was  silent.  "I,  too, 
have  thought  of  this.  As  you  say,  there  is  noth- 
ing to  lose.  I  shall  try." 

"Why  not  take  an  idea  in  the  field  of  your 
dream?"  she  pursued  eagerly.  "Why  not  write 
a  story  illustrating  how  the  criminal  is  to  be 
saved? — say,  the  story  of  a  boy  amid  evil  sur- 
roundings that  urged  him  toward  a  criminal  life ; 
the  boy  to  come  under  good  influence,  and  to  de- 
velop into  a  splendid  citizen." 

"That  may  be  just  the  idea,"  said  David. 

They  discussed  the  suggestion  warmly  the  re- 
mainder of  their  walk  to  the  car.  A  little  far- 
ther on,  as  they  were  coming  out  upon  the  Bow- 
ery, the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A  swayed  into  view. 
Astonishment  leaped  into  his  pink  face  when  he 
saw  who  David's  companion  was.  His  silk  hat 
performed  a  wide  arc,  and  David  had  a  sense 
that  backward  glances  over  the  Mayor's  shoul- 
ders were  following  them. 

"And  you  really  believe  in  me?"  David  asked, 
as  Helen's  car  drew  to  a  stop. 

"I  do — and  I  believe  all  the  other  things  I 
have  said."  She  gave  th'e  answer  with  a  steady 
look  into  his  eyes  and  with  a  firm  pressure  of  her 
hand. 

"I  hope  you'll  not  be  disappointed  1"  he 
breathed  fiercely,  exultantly. 

He  retreated  to  the  sidewalk  and  standing 
there,  the  clanging  of  the  elevated  trains  beating 


186  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

his  ears,  he  watched  the  slow  passage  of  her  car 
through  the  press  of  jostling,  vituperating 
trucks,  volleying  over  the  cobble-stones,  till  it  dis- 
appeared beyond  Cooper  Union.  Then  he 
turned  away,  and  strode  the  streets — chin  up, 
shoulders  back,  eyes  straightforward — powered 
with  such  a  hope,  such  a  determination  to  do,  as 
he  had  not  known  since  his  first  post-college 
days.  Perhaps  he  would  conquer  the  future. 
He  would  try. 

Yes     ...    he  would  conquer  it ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

PUCK  MASQUERADES  AS  CUPID 

DAVID  had  suggested  school  to  Tom,  but  the 
boy  would  none  of  it. 

"What,  set  in  one  o'  dem  agony  seats,  biffin' 
your  brain  wid  books,  a  skinny  lady  punchin' 
holes  t 'rough  you  wid  her  eyes!  Not  for  mine, 
pard!" 

A  job  was  what  he  wanted,  and  David  at 
length  concluded  that  after  Tom  had  been  tamed 
by  the  discipline  of  a  few  months  of  regular 
work,  he  would  perhaps  be  more  amicable  toward 
education. 

There  were  but  two  men  of  whom  David  could 
ask  aid  in  finding  a  place  for  the  boy,  Mr.  Rogers 
and  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A.  Mr.  Rogers  was 
beginning  to  be  something  of  a  puzzle  to  David. 
One  thing  that  made  David  wonder  was  the 
smallness  of  Mr.  Rogers's  business  compared 
with  his  ability.  They  had  had  a  few  short  talks 
and  David  had  discovered  there  lurked  behind 
that  reserved  exterior  a  sharp  intelligence  which 
now  and  then  flashed  out  unexpected  poniards  of 
bitter  wit.  David  contrasted  him  with  another 
rental  agent  he  had  met,  doing  several  times 
Rogers's  business,  and  the  second  man  seemed  a 
nonentity.  Yet  Rogers  was  the  agent  of  but 
half  a  dozen  tenements,  and  made  no  effort  to 
extend  his  clientage. 

187 


188  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

David  also  wondered  at  what  he  could  regard 
only  as  idiosyncrasies.  The  dingy  brown  of 
Rogers's  hair  seemed  to  him  hardly  a  natural  col- 
our; he  guessed  hair  dye.  But  hair  dye  he  asso- 
ciated with  vanity,  with  the  man  who  would 
falsify  his  gray  hair  to  extend  his  beauship,  and 
vanity  Rogers  apparently  had  not.  And  one 
day,  while  sweeping  out  Rogers's  office,  David 
had  tried  on  Rogers's  spectacles,  which  had 
been  left  on  the  desk,  and  had  discovered  he  could 
see  through  them  as  well  as  with  his  naked  eyes. 
The  lenses  were  blanks.  Why  should  the  man 
wear  blank  spectacles,  why  should  he  dye  his 
hair?  Mere  idiosyncracies  of  course — yet  rather 
queer  ones. 

Rogers  was  always  kind  and  courteous  to 
David,  and  David  heard  from  tenants  and  neigh- 
bours many  stories  of  the  agent's  warm  heart — 
of  rent  advanced  from  the  agent's  own  pocket 
when  a  tenant  was  out  of  work,  of  food  that 
came  covertly  to  fatherless  families,  of  mysteri- 
ous money  and  delicacies  that  came  to  the  sick 
poor.  Yet  he  was  invariably  cold  and  dis- 
tant to  David,  and  cold  and  distant  to  all  others ; 
so  much  so  that  to  try  to  thank  him  was  an  em- 
barrassment. Sometimes,  when  musing  about 
Rogers's  business  restraint,  his  colourless  dress, 
his  reserve,  his  stealthy  generosity,  it  seemed  to 
David  that  Rogers  sought  obscurity  and  ano- 
nymity with  the  zeal  that  other  men  seek  fame 
and  brass  tablets. 

It  was  the  reserve  of  Rogers  and  the  constraint 
David  felt  in  his  presence,  and  even  more  the 
knowledge  of  the  greater  influence  of  the  Mayor 
of  Avenue  A,  that  made  David  choose  to  ask  the 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  189 

latter's  aid  in  seeking  work  for  Tom.  So  about 
four  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  following  Helen's 
call,  he  walked  into  the  Pan- American  Cafe.  At 
a  large  table  in  a  front  corner  sat  the  Mayor,  two 
other  men,  and  half  a  dozen  women,  all  drinking 
of  coffee  and  eating  of  cake,  and  all  shaking 
with  full-voiced  laughter  that  bubbled  straight 
from  the  diaphragm.  David  was  in  no  hurry,  so 
he  sat  down  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  almost 
empty  cafe  to  wait  the  departure  of  the  Mayor's 
friends. 

The  ladies  about  the  Mayor  were  hearty  beau- 
ties of  from  ten  to  twenty  years'  acquaintance 
with  womanhood ;  and  among  them  there  was  an 
abundance  of  furs  and  diamonds.  Most  of  them 
were  misses,  David  learned  from  the  way  the 
Mayor  addressed  them.  The  Mayor,  David 
soon  perceived,  was  the  center  of  their  interest. 
Their  pleasantries,  their  well-seasoned  smiles, 
their  playful  blushes,  were  all  directed  at  him, 
and  now  and  then  one  of  his  sallies  was  reproved 
by  a  muff's  soft  blow  upon  his  mouth.  The  role 
of  target  seemed  to  please  him;  he  bent  now  to 
this  one,  now  to  that,  made  sweeping  flourishes, 
made  retorts  that  drew  upon  him  more  of  the 
same  pleasant  missiles.  It  began  to  dawn  upon 
David  that  his  saviour  was  very  much  of  a  gal- 
lant. 

Presently  the  Mayor,  rising  to  greet  a  new- 
comer, noticed  David.  After  a  few  moments  he 
excused  himself  and  took  a  chair  at  David's  ta- 
ble. A  silk  vest  that  was  a  condensed  flower 
garden  made  the  mayoral  front  a  gorgeous  sight 
to  behold. 

There  was  a  new  respect  in  the  Mayor's  man- 


190  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ner.  "I  see  you're  flyin'  in  high  society  these 
days,"  he  began,  in  a  whisper. 

"You  refer  to  Miss  Chambers?  She's  merely 
interested  in  me  as  you  are — in  my  reform." 
David  said  this  quietly,  as  though  the  subject 
was  closed. 

His  dignity  was  not  lost  on  the  Mayor.  "Say, 
you've  taken  an  all-fired  brace  to  yourself  in  the 
last  ten  days,  ain't  you !  As  for  your  lady  friend 
— well,  if  the  way  she  was  talkin'  to  you  is  the 
way  reformers  talk,  gee  I  wish  some  one  like 
her'd  try  to  make  a  man  out  o'  mel  She's  all 
right,  friend.  I've  seen  her  before  and  I've 
heard  a  lot  about  her.  But  her  old  man — Lord, 
but  I'd  like  to  set  for  a  week  or  so  on  his  wind- 
pipe! Real  estate  is  one  o'  his  thousand  lines, 
you  know.  He  owns  a  lot  o'  tenements  in  this 
part  o'  town — none  near  St.  Christopher's,  o' 
course — and  as  a  landlord,  say,  he's  just  par- 
tic'larhell!" 

"I've  come  to  ask  another  favour  of  you," 
David  cut  in,  quickly.  "You've  seen  the  boy 
that  stays  with  me.  I  want  to  get  him  a  job  if  I 
can.  I  thought  possibly  you  might  be  able  to 
help  me" 

"I've  seen  the  kid,  yes.  Somethin'  of  a  sleight 
o'  hand  performance,  ain't  he? — now  he's  there 
and  now  he  ain't.  Where'd  you  pick  him  up  ?" 

"We  just  fell  in  with  each  other  a  couple  of 
months  ago.  There's  a  man  in  him." 

"I  see.  And  you're  trying  to  dig  it  out. 
You'll  have  to  do  a  little  blastin'  on  the  job,  don't 
you  think?  As  for  gettin'  him  work" — he  shook 
his  head  slowly — "there's  about  five  thousand 
families  on  Avenue  A,  and  each  family's  got  five 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  191 

boys,  and  about  once  in  so  often  the  street  out 
there  is  blockaded  with  their  mas  beggin'  me  to 
get  'em  jobs.  There's  how  I'm  fixed." 

"You  can't  help  me  then?" 

"You've  sized  it  up.     Sorry.     Wish  I  could." 

After  a  moment  David  asked  hesitantly: 
"You  couldn't  use  a  boy  here,  could  you?" 

"Here !     Nothin'  I  could  use  a  boy  for." 

"Help  in  the  kitchen,  carry  things  up  from  the 
cellar,  clean  up,"  David  suggested. 

The  Mayor  shook  his  head. 

"It  would  be  great  for  the  boy  if  he  could 
work  a  while  for  some  one  like  you  that  would 
understand  him,  make  allowances,  and  break  him 
in  properly,"  David  went  on  eagerly.  "He's 
never  held  a  job,  and  a  stranger  wouldn't  have 
much  charity  for  his  shortcomings,  wouldn't  keep 
him  long.  You  don't  need  him,  but  still  you  can 
make  things  for  him  to  do.  In  three  or  four 
weeks  I'll  have  found  another  job  for  him,  and  by 
then  you'll  have  him  worked  into  shape  to  hold 
it.  Of  course  I'll  pay  his  wages  myself — say 
three  dollars  a  week ;  only  he  must  think  it's  com- 
ing from  you." 

The  Mayor's  look  changed  to  that  sharp,  pene- 
trating gaze  with  which  he  had  searched  David's 
interior  on  his  first  visit.  "Yes,  you're  in  dead 
earnest,"  he  grunted  after  a  few  seconds. 

He  raised  a  fat  forefinger.  "See  here,  friend. 
You're  cuttin'  into  my  business.  I'm  an  octo- 
pus, a  trust — you  understand? — and  any  man 
that  tries  any  philanthropic  stunts  in  my  part  o' 
town,  I  run  him  out  o'  business.  See?  Now 
you  send  the  kid  around  and  I'll  let  him  bust 
tilings  here  for  a  while.  But  keep  your  coin. 


192  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

I  reckon  three  dollars  ain't  goin'  to  put  Carl 
Hoffman  on  the  bum." 

David  thanked  him  warmly.  "But  you  don't 
need  the  boy,"  he  ended  in  a  determined  voice, 
"so  I  can't  let  you  pay  him." 

The  Mayor  regarded  David  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment. "Have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said 
abruptly ;  and  suddenly  his  big  fist  reached  across 
the  table,  and  to  David  it  was  like  shaking  hands 
with  a  fervent  pillow.  "Friend,  I've  sized  you 
up  for  the  real  thing.  You  made  your  mistake, 
and  it  was  a  bad  one — but  we  all  make  'em.  You 
belong  'way  up.  I'm  proud  to  know  you." 

David  flushed  and  was  stammering  out  his  ap- 
preciation, when  the  Mayor  interrupted  with, 
"Oh,  a  friend  that's  good  enough  for  Miss  Cham- 
bers is  good  enough  for  me." 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  group  he 
had  left,  then  leaned  confidentially  across  the 
table  and  asked  in  a  whisper:  "What  d'you 
think  o'  the  bunch? — the  ladies  I  mean." 

"Why,  they  seem  to  be  very  fine,"  David  an- 
swered, surprised.  "And  they  admire  you." 

"Friend,"  said  the  Mayor  with  an  approving 
nod,  "you  certainly  ain't  been  lookin'  on  with 
your  blind  eye.  They  do  that!  And  every 
afternoon  it's  the  same — either  them,  or  some 
other  bunch.  And  d'you  know  what  they're 
after?" 

"No." 

"Me.  They  want  to  marry  me.  And  there 
ain't  a  girl  on  the  avenue  between  fifteen  and 
seventy  that  ain't  tryin'  to  do  the  same.  Friend, 
I  can't  help  bein'  pop'lar  with  the  ladies.  I  like 
'em — God  bless  'em!  But  when  you've  got  a 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  193 

whole  avenue  tryin'  to  marry  you,  it's  hell!" 
He  shook  his  head  with  an  air  of  sadness.  "I 
don't  want  to  marry.  I  was  married  once  for 
about  a  year.  It  was  when  I  was  a  kid.  I  guess 
she  was  a  pretty  nice  girl,  but  she  was  too  much 
like  her  mother,  and  when  she  went  I  swore  I'd 
keep  out  o'  that  kind  o'  trouble.  But  they're 
closin'  in  on  me.  One  of  'em's  sure  to  get  me. 
I  don't  know  which  one,  or  mebbe  I  could  head 
her  off.  I  ought  to  keep  away  from  'em,  but  I 
can't  leave  'em  alone,  and  they  won't  leave  me 
alone.  Oh,  hell!" 

He  rose  with  a  groan.  "Well,  send  round  the 
kid,"  he  said,  and  carefully  pulling  down  his  vest 
and  smoothing  his  dozen  hairs,  he  rejoined  his 
friends.  As  David  left  the  cafe  he  heard  a  deep 
roar  from  the  Mayor,  and  had  a  glimpse  of  a  fair 
suitress  of  forty  rebuking  the  Mayor's  mouth 
with  her  muff. 

David  sent  Tom  to  the  Mayor,  and  walked 
over  to  a  hardware  store  on  the  Bowery  to  order 
some  new  ash  cans.  As  he  was  returning 
through  the  Bowery  a  man  stepped  to  his  side 
with  a  quiet,  "Hello,  pal."  Startled,  David 
looked  about.  Beside  him  was  a  wiry,  gray  man, 
with  deep-lined  face  and  a  keen,  shifty  eye.  It 
was  a  man  David  had  known  in  prison — a  cyni- 
cal, hardened  gentleman  who  had  been  running 
counter  to  the  law  for  thirty  years,  during  which 
time  he  had  participated  in  scores  of  daring  rob- 
beries and  had  known  most  of  the  country's  clev- 
erest criminals.  Bill  Halpin  was  his  name — at 
least  the  most  recent  of  his  dozen  or  two. 

Halpin  had  taken  a  fancy  to  David  while  they 
were  prison-mates,  why  David  could  not  under- 


194,  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

stand;  and  his  greeting  was  warm  to  come  from 
one  of  his  contemptuous  nature.  The  two 
walked  on  together,  and  David,  in  response  to 
Halpin's  queries,  told  that  he  had  gone  to  work 
with  the  determination  to  live  honestly.  Halpin 
gave  a  sneer  of  unbelief — he  sneered  at  all  things 
save  the  frankly  evil — but  said  nothing.  When 
they  reached  David's  tenement,  David  asked  him 
in,  but  he  said  he  had  an  engagement  with  a  pal, 
and  went  away  after  promising  to  come  around 
some  other  time. 

David  shovelled  the  furnace  full  of  coal  and 
was  beginnig  his  preparations  for  dinner,  aglow 
with  his  new  hopes  and  with  the  thought  that  he 
had  regained  Helen  for  his  friend,  when  there 
was  a  knock  at  his  door.  He  opened  the  door, 
expecting  his  usual  caller — a  tenant  with  a  griev- 
ance. Kate  Morgan  stepped  into  the  room. 

David  had  seen  her  in  finery  before,  but  never 
in  such  finery  as  now.  There  was  a  white  velvet 
hat  with  two  great  black  plumes  that  curled  down 
upon  her  back  hair;  a  long  black  coat,  through 
whose  open  front  glowed  the  warm  red  of  a 
gown;  a  black  fur  scar£  round  her  neck  and  a 
black  muff  enclosing  her  white-gloved  hands. 

She  stepped  into  the  room  and  her  eyes — 
brighter  than  ever  were  the  eyes  of  the  furs' 
original  owners — gleamed  over  the  scarf  with 
hard  defiance. 

"Good  evening,  Mister  Aldrich." 

David  flushed.  "Good  evening."  He  drew 
his  one  rocking-chair  toward  her.  "Won't  you 
sit  down?" 

She  sank  into  the  chair,  threw  open  the  coat  so 
that  the  full  glory  of  its  white  satin  lining  and  of 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  195 

the  red  dress  were  displayed,  and  thrust  out  a 
little  patent-leathered  foot. 

"I  saw  you  with  Miss  Chambers  last  night," 
she  said,  her  brilliant  eyes  darting  contempt  at 
him.  "Of  course  you  told  her  all  about  that  Al- 
len affair.  You're  not  only  a  coward.  You're 
a  squealer." 

David  was  standing  with  his  back  to  his  man- 
tel, and  Kate  had  to  see  the  erectness,  the  confi- 
dence, the  decision,  that  had  come  to  him  since 
the  night  of  their  adventure.  "I  don't  know 
why  you're  saying  these  things,"  he  returned 
quietly,  "but  if  saying  them  pleases  you,  go 
on." 

"Well,  ain't  we  got  high  and  dignified  since 
we  became  a  janitor!"  she  sneered.  "A  janitor! 
Sweeping — scrubbing — listening  to  the  kicks  of 
dirty  tenants — digging  with  your  hands  in  the 
garbage  to  separate  paper,  tin  cans,  greasy 
bones.  Lord,  but  ain't  you  high  up  in  life!" 

"Go  on,"  said  David. 

She  drew  out  her  cigarette  box — she  knew  he 
disliked  to  see  her  smoke — lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  blew  a  little  cloud  toward  him. 

"A  janitor!  What  a  poor,  weak,  miserable 
soul  you've  got.  Think  of  a  man  turning  from 
excitement,  an  easy  life,  good  things,  and  taking 
up  this!  But  you're  not  a  real  man.  You'd 
rather  do  dirty  work  for  a  year  than  earn  a  year 
of  good  times  by  a  night's  work.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  know  what  I  cleaned  up  the  other  night 
after  you  sneaked  out?" 

"What  you  wanted,  I  suppose." 

"That's  it— I  got  all  I  went  after!  I'm  on 
Easy  Street  for  a  year.  And  I'm  enjoying  life, 


196  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

too.  You  set  that  down.  While  you  clean  up 
other  people's  dirt,  and  live  in  a  basement,  and 
cook  yourself  three-cent  dinners!" 

All  her  fierceness,  all  her  scorn,  were  in  her 
words,  gave  them  a  jagged  edge;  and  she  thrust 
them  in  deep  and  twisted  them  vindictively. 
David,  very  white,  looked  steadily  down  at  her, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"And  besides,  you're  a  squealer!" 

He  continued  silent. 

She  sent  out  a  puif  of  smoke,  her  eyes  blazing 
at  him,  and  thrust  again : 

"And  a  damned  coward!'* 

David  grew  yet  paler,  but  he  continued  his 
steady,  silent  gaze. 

She  sat  looking  up  at  him  for  several  mo- 
ments, without  speaking  again.  Then  slowly 
something  of  the  fierce  scorn,  the  wild  desire  to 
pain  him,  went  out  of  her  face. 

"And  so  you're  going  to  stick  to  honesty?"  she 
presently  asked,  abruptly,  her  voice  still  hard. 
"As  tough  as  it  is?" 

"Yes,"  said  David,  quietly  as  before. 

"And  nothing  can  change  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  continued  staring  up  at  him.  For  an  in- 
stant faint  twitches  broke  her  face's  hard  sur- 
face, but  it  tightened  again.  Suddenly,  to 
David's  astoundment,  she  whirled  about  in  her 
chair,  presenting  him  her  back;  and  he  saw  a 
white  hand  clench  and  her  little  body  grow  rigid. 
Then  suddenly  she  sprang  up,  hurled  her  ciga- 
rette box  across  the  room,  and  turned  upon  him 
with  a  deep  gasp,  her  face  convulsed. 

"Here  I  am!"  she  cried,  stretching  out  to  him 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  197 

her  open  hands.  "I  tried  to  get  you  to  come  to 
my  way.  You  wouldn't  come.  I've  come  to 
your  way.  Here  I  am!" 

This  whizzing  from  one  pole  to  the  other  was 
too  great  a  speed  for  David.  "What?"  he 
gasped. 

"I  lied  about  New  Year's  night !  I  took  noth- 
ing— not  a  thing!  You  wouldn't  let  me.  I've 
acted  to  you  like  a  devil.  You're  not  a  coward. 
You  did  not  leave  me  in  Allen's  house.  I  saw 
you  waiting  behind  the  palm.  I've  tried  to  keep 
away  from  you.  I  didn't  want  to  give  in.  But 
I've  come!  I've  give  in!  I'll  be  whatever  you 
want  me  to  be,  David! — whatever  you  want  me 
to  be!" 

David  was  not  yet  at  the  other  pole.  "What- 
ever I  want  you  to  be?"  he  said  dazedly. 

"Yes!  Yes!  I'U  be  honest— be  anything!" 
she  answered,  breathless.  She  moved  a  quick 
step  nearer,  and  went  on  in  an  appealing,  break- 
ing voice:  "But  don't  you  see,  David?  Don't 
you  see?  I  love  you!  Take  me!" 

David  was  there.  A  wave  of  pain,  of  self- 
shame,  of  infinite  regret,  swept  through  him. 
For  a  moment,  while  he  tried  to  get  hold  of  him- 
self, he  looked  down  into  the  quivering,  passion- 
ate, tear-lit  face;  then  he  todk  the  hands  out- 
stretched to  him. 

"Kate,"  he  said  imploringly,  "I'm  so  sorry — 
so  sorry!  Forget  me.  I  am  nobody — noth- 
ing." 

"I  love  you!" 

"Think  how  poor  I  am,  how  far  down." 

"I  love  you!" 

The  low  tensity  of  that  iterated  cry  shamed 


198  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

out  of  existence  all  evasive  reasons — drove  David 
straight  to  what  he  thought  his  uttermost  an- 
swer. "Forgive  me,"  he  said,  sick  with  loathing 
of  himself.  "But  you've  forced  me  to  say  it. 
.  .  .  I  don't  love  you." 
-  "I  love  you!" 

She  had  paled  at  his  words,  and  her  cry  was 
only  a  whispered  gasp;  but  her  fixed  upward 
gaze,  passionate,  appealing,  mandatory,  did  not 
waver  an  instant.  David  had  but  one  word  left 
— and  that,  he  had  thought,  was  to  be  forever 
unspoken.  But  it  had  to  be  spoken  now.  Af- 
ter a  moment,  in  which  her  face  seemed  to  swim 
before  him,  he  said,  huskily: 

"I  love  someone  else." 

She  drew  suddenly  back,  there  was  a  sharp 
indrawing  of  the  breath,  the  face  hardened,  the 
eyes  above  the  fur  neckpiece  gleamed  fiercely. 

"Who?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Who?" 

"I  cannot  say." 

The  eyes  narrowed  to  slits,  and  she  looked  him 
through  as  on  the  day  she  had  guessed  he  was 
just  from  prison — only  now  her  intuition  was 
quickened  a  hundred  fold.  They  stood  motion- 
less a  few  seconds,  he  trying  to  parry  her  in- 
stinct; then  from  her  came  a  low,  sharp  "A-a-h!" 
and,  after  a  second,  "So  it's  her!" 

He  shivered.  There  was  another  moment  of 
tense  silence.  Then  she  said,  abruptly: 

"It's  Miss  Chambers?" 

He  did  not  move  an  eyelash. 

"You  love  Miss  Chambers!"  she  announced 
decisively. 


PUCK  AS  CUPID  199 

Her  hands  clenched.  "I  hate  her!  Why 
shouldn't  she  stay  in  her  own  world!  Why 
should  she  come  mixing  in  my  affairs!  Oh!  I 
could—  — !"  She  finished  with  a  tensing  of  her 
whole  figure. 

She  glared  silently  at  David  for  a  moment; 
then  a  harsh,  mocking  laugh  broke  from  her. 

"So,  you're  in  love  with  Miss  Chambers! 
Miss  Chambers — a  janitor.  What  a  lovely 
match!  Of  course  you've  told  her,  and  she's 
said  yes!" 

"I  shall  never  tell  her,"  David  said  quietly. 

The  bitterness  and  mockery  began  to  fade 
slowly  from  her  face,  and  meditation  came  in 
their  stead;  and  when  she  spoke  again  her  tone 
was  the  tone  of  argument.  "Don't  you  know 
that  she's  far,  far  above  you?  You're  a  fool  to 
think  of  her!  Why,  you  can  never  get  her — 
never!  You  see  that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes."  He  raised  a  peremptory,  entreating 
hand.  "Please ! — let's  not  speak  of  her." 

Her  whole  body  quickened.  "After  her,  do 
you  like  any  woman  better  than  me?"  she  de- 
manded. 

He  shook  his  head.     "No." 

"She's  out  of  the  question  for  you — she 
doesn't  live!"  She  crept  slowly  toward  David, 
her  eyes  burning  into  his.  "There's  no  one  be- 
tween us,"  she  said  in  a  low,  choked  voice.  Then 
her  voice  blazed  up,  her  words  rushed  out.  "You 
do  not  want  me  now,  but  you  will!  I'll  make 
you  love  me.  I'll  be  anything  you  like — I'll  be 
honest! — I'll  work!  Yes,  yes,  I'll  make  you  love 
me,  David!" 

Her  hands  had  clutched  his,  and  she  now  held 


200  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

up  her  quivering  face.  "I'm  going  to  be  honest 
for  your  sake,  David.  Kiss  me !" 

David  was  agonised  with  the  pang  of  her 
tragedy,  with  the  shame  of  his  own  great  part  in 
it.  "Forgive  me,"  he  whispered  huskily;  and  he 
stooped  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers. 

She  gave  a  little  cry  and  flung  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  held  him  tight.  Then  breathing 
against  his  cheek  "You'll  love  me  yet,  David !" 
she  abruptly  withdrew  her  arms,  and  the  next 
moment  was  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH 

KATE'S  last  sentence,  "You'll  love  me  yet, 
David!"  recurred  to  him  constantly  during 
the  next  two  days.  He  would  not,  of  course — 
yet  he  could  but  muse  upon  the  possibility.  We 
are  all  creatures  of  change.  Our  views  of  to- 
day may  not  be  our  views  of  to-morrow,  our  dis- 
likes of  this  year  may  be  our  desires  of  next. 
Since,  as  Kate  had  said,  Helen  Chambers  did  not 
live  for  him,  might  there  not  take  place  within 
him  such  a  change  as  would  make  him  yearn  for 
the  love  he  now  could  not  accept? 

David  looked  forward  with  dread  to  his  next 
meeting  with  Kate.  He  feared  another  such 
scene,  so  painful  to  them  both,  as  the  one  they 
had  just  passed  through.  But  his  fear  was 
needless.  Kate's  nature  was  an  impetuous  one, 
little  schooled  to  control,  but  her  will  was  strong 
and  she  was  capable  of  restraint  as  well  as  of 
abandon.  She  knew  enough  of  character  to  see 
that  David  could  be  eventually  won  to  be  more 
than  friend  only  by  now  asking  and  giving  no 
more  than  friendship ;  and  she  was  strong  enough 
to  hold  herself  to  this  course. 

When  she  came  in  three  evenings  later,  both 
manner  and  dress  were  sober,  though  her  eyes 
showed  what  was  behind  her  self-control.  They 
greeted  each  other  with  constraint;  but  she  at 

201 


202  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

once  said  abruptly,  "I'm  going  to  behave,"  and 
went  on  to  tell  David  that,  after  two  days' 
searching,  she  had  found  a  position  in  a  depart- 
ment store  and  had  begun  work  that  morning. 

"I'm  a  soap  saleslady,"  she  said.  "Lace-box 
soap,  a  three-cake  box  for  nine  cents,  takes  off 
skin  and  all — you  know  the  kind.  I  get  five  dol- 
lars a  week.  That's  two  hundred  and  sixty  dol- 
lars for  a  year's  work.  I've  made  that,  and 
more,  in  a  night.  Oh,  it  pays  to  be  honest!" 

She  had  broken  the  constraint,  but  neverthe- 
less David  was  grateful  for  the  entrance  of 
Rogers  who  just  then  chanced  in.  David  intro- 
duced the  two,  and  after  a  few  moments  of  chat 
Rogers  invited  David  and  Kate  to  dine  with  him 
at  the  Mayor's  cafe,  where  he  had  all  his  meals; 
and  a  little  later  they  set  out  for  the  Pan-Ameri- 
can. 

The  restaurant  was  filled  with  diners — fair 
Germans  sitting  behind  big  glass  steins,  olive- 
skinned  Jews  and  Hungarians,  and  women  in 
plenty  of  both  hues.  Most  were  more  or  less 
Americanised,  but  many  announced  by  the  queer 
cut  of  their  clothes  that  they  were  recent  pil- 
grims. Some  tables  were  quiet  with  a  day's 
weariness,  some  buzzed  with  business,  some  (and 
most  of  these  were  Jewish)  were  eager  with  dis- 
cussion on  music,  literature,  politics,  religion. 
Above  the  buzz  of  four  tongues  rose  a  wild,  wail- 
ing air  of  the  Carpathians  that  the  orchestra,  in 
red  velvet  jackets,  were  setting  free  with  excited 
hands  from  their  guitar,  mandolin,  xylophone 
and  two  violins. 

The  Mayor,  in  vest  of  effulgent  white,  was  cir- 


ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH       203 

culating  among  his  guests,  joking,  wishing  good 
appetites,  radiating  hospitality  from  his  glowing 
face.  His  well-organised  kitchen  and  dining- 
room  apparently  ran  themselves,  so  during  the 
dinner  hours  there  was  nothing  to  interrupt  his 
being  merely  host.  He  beckoned  Rogers's 
party,  who  had  paused  at  the  door,  toward  him 
with  a  grand  wave  of  his  jewelled  hand,  and  led 
them  to  a  table  at  the  rear  of  the  room. 

"Well,  friends,  if  your  appetites  are  as  good 
as  my  dinner,  you've  certainly  got  a  good  time 
comin',"  he  said,  and  moved  on  to  other  guests. 

On  the  way  over  Kate  had  announced  that  she 
was  going  to  do  some  studying  at  home — read- 
ing was  one  of  David's  interests,  so  she  had  de- 
cided it  must  be  one  of  hers — and  had  asked  for 
advice;  and  this  now  led  to  a  discussion  upon 
books  between  David  and  Rogers.  David  dis- 
covered that  his  employer  had  no  use  for  poetry, 
had  a  fair  acquaintance  with  fiction,  and  in  his- 
tory and  philosophy  was  much  better  read  than 
himself. 

Rogers,  in  his  unexcitable  way,  talked  well. 
At  times  his  remarks  were  brilliant  in  their  analy- 
sis, and  at  times  there  came  those  quick,  caustic 
thrusts  of  wit  that  pierce  like  a  sword  to  the  heart 
of  pretense  and  false  ideas.  He  expressed  him- 
self with  ease  in  a  wide  vocabulary,  though  many 
of  the  less  common  words  he  mispronounced — • 
a  fault  that  to  David  was  elusively  familiar. 
He  spoke  always  in  a  quiet,  even  tone,  that  would 
have  led  a  casual  hearer  to  believe  that  he  was 
merely  a  cold  mentality,  that  he  had  not  the  fire 
of  a  soul.  But  David  had  the  feeling  now,  as 


204  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

he  had  had  before  and  as  he  was  often  to  have 
again,  that  in  looking  into  those  glowing  eyes  he 
was  looking  into  the  crater  of  a  volcano. 

During  this  play  of  wits  Kate  could  only  look 
silently  on.  She  had  known  that  David  was  in 
education  above  the  level  of  her  friends,  but  the 
side  of  himself  he  was  now  showing  she  had  not 
before  seen.  His  richness  where  she  had  noth- 
ing seemed  to  remove  him  to  an  impossible  dis- 
tance. Her  face  became  drawn  with  sharp  pain. 

But  presently  the  talk  shifted  from  books  to 
life,  and  she  forgot  her  despair.  Here  she  was 
at  home.  She  knew  life,  her  impressions  were 
distinct  and  decided,  and  her  sentences  seemed 
pieces  of  her  own  vivid  personality.  The  pres- 
ence of  the  two  men  inspired  her.  David,  who 
thought  he  knew  her,  found  himself  being  sur- 
prised at  the  quickness  and  keenness  of  her  mind, 
and  Rogers  watched  her  little  sparkling  face  with 
more  and  more  interest.  She  was  surprised  at 
herself,  too;  talking  on  subjects  of  broader  in- 
terest than  personalities  was  a  new  experience  to 
her,  and  she  discovered  in  herself  powers  never 
before  called  out. 

As  they  were  sipping  their  coffee  to  the  fren- 
zied music  of  a  gypsy  waltz,  Tom,  who  had  spied 
them  from  the  kitchen,  darted  in  to  their  table. 
His  appearance  was  much  improved  by  a  hair- 
cut and  a  complete  new  outfit  which  a  small 
amount  in  David's  cash,  and  a  larger  amount  in 
the  Mayor's  credit,  had  enabled  him  to  purchase 
on  the  instalment  plan.  He  shook  hands  all 
around,  unabashed  by  Rogers's  habitual  reserve. 

"How'd  you  like  de  feed?"  he  demanded 
eagerly.  "If  anyt'ing's  wrong,  I'll  fix  it.  Nut- 


ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH       205 

tin'  ?  O'  course  not.  Say,  de  grub  here's  swell, 
ain't  it?  T'irty  cents  is  a  lot  for  a  dinner,  but 
it's  wort'  it.  We  buys  only  de  best,  we  cooks  it 
right,  an'  we  serves  it  proper,  wid  table-clot'  an' 
napkins.  D'you  take  notice  o'  dem?  It  ain't 
many  places  you  gits  table-clot'  an'  napkins! 

"Was  your  waiter  all  right?  Shall  I  call  him 
down  for  anyt'ing?  No.  Well,  I'm  glad  I 
don't  have  to  say  nuttin'  to  him,  for  he's  a  friend 
o'  mine.  Say,  mebbe  you  t'ink  it's  easy  to  run  a 
place  like  dis.  T'ink  again!  First,  dere's  what're 
we  goin'  to  have  to-day,  den  dere's  gettin'  it 
ready,  den  dere's  servin*  it,  an'  de  dishes,  an' 
wrashin'  'em,  an'  everyt'ing.  It's  hustle,  an' 
worry,  an'  t'ink  from  when  you  gets  up  till  when 
you  goes  to  bed." 

And  on  he  went,  picturing  the  responsibility 
under  which  he  tottered,  till  they  told  him  good- 
night and  went  out. 

Kate  was  in  a  glow  of  spirits  when  David  and 
Rogers  left  her  at  her  door.  She  whispered  ap- 
pealingly  to  David  as  they  parted,  "Please  talk 
with  me  this  way  again,  David."  It  had  been  in 
his  mind  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  would 
be  better  for  Kate  if  they  should  cease  to  meet; 
but  he  frankly  realised  he  was  the  only  link  which 
held  her  to  her  new  honesty,  and  to  break  their 
friendship  would  be  to  snap  that  link.  And  so 
he  answered,  "Yes — often ;"  and  this  was  in  fact 
the  first  of  many  such  hours  spent  together,  in 
which  they  were  often  joined  by  Rogers.  It 
seemed  to  David  that  Kate's  cynicism  and  sharp- 
ness were  beginning  slowly  to  wear  away. 

Since  his  talk  writh  Helen  David's  hope  of  con- 
quering the  future  had  been  constantly  high. 


206  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  did  not  underestimate  the  struggle  before 
him,  but  strength  and  courage  had  been  flowing 
into  him  since  food  and  shelter  had  ceased  to  be 
worries,  and  he  now  felt  that  under  Helen's  in- 
spiration he  could  do  anything.  One  of  his  aims 
he  had  already  achieved,  Helen's  respect,  though 
how  still  seemed  to  him  a  miracle.  His  heart 
yearned  even  more  eagerly  than  ever  for  some- 
thing higher  than  friendship,  but  he  knew  this 
desire  to  be,  as  always,  unattainable.  He  could 
not  hope  for  a  second  miracle,  and  one  that  would 
sink  the  first  to  a  commonplace. 

Her  suggestion  that  he  should  write  a  story 
of  the  man-making  of  a  boy  whom  surroundings 
had  forced  toward  destruction,  laid  immediate 
and  powerful  hold  upon  him.  He  saw,  as  she 
had  said,  that  a  story  of  the  right  kind  might  con- 
tribute in  some  degree  to  awakening  the  public's 
sympathy  for,  and  responsibility  toward,  the 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  children  that  are  going 
to  waste.  And  he  saw,  too,  that  such  a  book 
might  lift  him  toward  the  world's  respect,  where 
he  would  be  happier,  more  effective.  Selfishly, 
altruistically,  the  story  was  the  thing  for  him  to 
do. 

During  the  days  after  their  talk,  all  his  spare 
time,  and  even  while  he  went  about  his  work,  his 
imagination  was  impassionedly  shaping  charac- 
ters and  plot.  He  had  a  note  from  Helen  say- 
ing she  wanted  to  see  him  the  following  Friday, 
and  he  could  hardly  wait  for  it  to  come,  he  was 
that  eager  to  ask  her  judgment  on  his  story's 
outline.  When  Friday  afternoon  did  finally  ar- 
rive, he  began  to  look  for  her  an  hour  before  she 
could  be  expected,  excitedly  pacing  his  room> 


ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH       207 

and  every  minute  glancing  through  his  window 
up  to  the  sidewalk. 

When  Helen,  after  leaving  her  club  of  school- 
girls that  afternoon,  entered  the  reception  room 
on  her  way  out,  she  found  Mr.  Allen  waiting  for 
her  in  the  Flemish  oak  settle. 

"You  were  not  expecting  me,  but  I  hope  you're 
not  displeased,"  he  said  in  his  grave,  pleasant 
voice,  and  with  the  ease  of  long-accustomed  wel- 
come. 

She  could  not  wholly  restrain  a  little  air  of 
vexation  as  she  gave  him  her  hand.  "Of  course 
I'm  glad.  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  disappoint 
you  if  you've  come  to  go  home  with  me.  I've 
promised  to  make  a  call — in  the  neighbourhood. 
Of  course  you  can  walk  with  me  there,  if  you 
like." 

"Oh,  the  neighbourhood!"  He  gave  a  humor- 
ous groan  of  mock  complaint,  but  down  in  his 
heart  the  complaint  was  very  real.  The  neigh- 
bourhood was  coming  too  often  between  her  and 
his  desire  to  be  with  her.  "Very  well.  I'll  take 
what  I  can  get." 

She  threw  her  sable  scarf  about  her  throat  and 
they  stepped  forth  into  the  narrow  street,  paved 
with  new  snow  that  the  day  had  trodden  to  a 
dirty  glaze.  He  had  talked  with  her  before  about 
his  ambitions,  for  his  future  had  been  part  of  his 
offering  when  he  had  offered  himself.  He  now 
told  her  that  he  had  just  been  appointed  chief 
counsel  of  the  committee  of  the  legislature  for 
investigating  impure  foods.  She  knew  how 
great  a  distinction  this  was,  how  great  a  token  of 
the  future,  and  she  congratulated  him  warmly. 


208  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"If  these  good  things  you  see  really  do  come, 
you  know  I  don't  want  to  share  them  alone,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice,  when  she  had  finished. 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "The  more  I 
think,  the  more  I  see  how  unsuited  I  am  for  you. 
Our  ideas  are  so  different.  You  face  one  pole, 
I  another.  We  would  never  pull  together;  we 
could  only  achieve  the  deadlock  of  two  joined 
forces  that  struggle  in  opposite  directions." 

"But  you  know  my  hope  is  that  we  shall  not 
always  face  in  opposite  directions." 

She  turned  upon  him  a  smile  that  was  touched 
with  irony.  "You  mean  you  expect  some  day  to 
look  toward  my  pole?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed. 
"You  know  I  mean  you  will  some  day  see  the 
futility  of  such  work  as  you  are  doing,  and  the 
wrongness  of  many  of  your  ideas — and  then  you 
will  turn  to  the  true  pole." 

"Your  pole?  No.  I  do  not  believe,  as  you 
do,  that  only  the  fit  should  survive.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve, as  you  do,  that  the  hard  conditions  of  life 
are  necessary  as  a  kind  of  sieve,  or  a  kind  of  civil 
service  examination,  to  separate  the  fit  from  the 
unfit.  I  do  not  believe,  as  you  do,  that  the  great 
mass  who  have  failed  to  pass  the  meshes  of  this 
test,  who  are  down,  have  by  the  mere  fact  of  their 
being  down  proved  their  unfitness,  shown  that 
they  are  worthy  to  be  neglected.  Your  belief, 
summed  up,  is  that  the  world  is  made  for  the 
strong — for  the  rich  man  born  to  opportunities, 
and  for  the  poor  man  born  with  the  superior 
brains  and  energy  to  create  them.  To  that  be- 
lief I  can  never  come.  I  believe  the  world  is 


ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH       209 

made  also  for  the  weak.  Rather,  I  believe  all 
should  be  made  strong." 

With  a  sweep  of  her  hand  she  indicated  the 
two  rows  of  tenements  whose  dingy  red  walls 
stretched  away  and  away  till  they  and  the  nar- 
row street  disappeared  into  the  wintry  twilight. 

"All  these  people  here — they  are  weak  because 
they  have  never  had  a  chance  to  be  otherwise. 
Give  them  a  fair  chance  and  they  will  become 
strong — or  most  of  them.  That  is  what  I  be- 
lieve— a  fair  chance  for  all  to  become  strong." 

"And  I  believe  the  same.  Only  I  believe  that 
chance  exists  at  present  for  all  who  are  worthy. 
If  there  is  good  stuff  in  a  man,  he  rises;  if  not, 
he  belongs  where  he  is.  The  struggle  is  selective, 
it  develops.  Make  it  easier  and  you  lower  the 
quality  of  your  people." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know  you  are  an  unalterable  indi- 
vidualist," she  sighed.  "When  I  realise  the 
great  part  you  are  going  to  have  during  the  next 
twenty  or  thirty  years  in  shaping  the  conditions 
under  which  we  all  must  live,  I  wish  you  could 
be  brought  to  a  broader  concept  of  the  human  re- 
lationship." 

"If  I  am  to  play  such  a  part,  my  own  concept 
is  quite  broad  enough." 

"But  in  ways  it  is  so  hopeless!  It  consigns  all 
these  people  to  outer  darkness.  It  holds  no 
chance  for  the  man  whom  circumstances  are 
pressing  down,  no  chance  for  any  of  those  help- 
less people  who  are  reaching  vainly  upward,  or 
those  who  would  be  reaching  upward  if  their 
consciousness  were  roused."  They  were  draw- 
ing near  to  David's  house,  and  the  sight  of  it 


210          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

prompted  a  specific  instance.  "No  chance  for 
the  man  who  has  stolen,  who  repents,  who  strug- 
gles to  reform." 

"The  repentant  thief!"  He  gave  a  low  laugh. 
"The  one  that  repented  on  the  cross  is  the  eter- 
nal type  of  the  thief  that  repents.  If  he  re- 
pents, it's  at  the  last  minute — when  he  can  steal 
no  more!" 

His  words  half  angered  her.  "I  wish  you 
could  talk  with  the  one  I'm  going  to  see  now!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "That  Aldrich 
fellow  you  were  telling  about!"  he  ejaculated. 

He  felt  a  further  astonishment — that  she 
should  be  calling  upon  a  man,  and  evidently  in 
his  room.  He  did  not  put  this  into  words,  but 
she  read  it  in  his  face.  It  angered  her  more,  and 
she  answered  his  look  sharply : 

"To  have  him  call  at  my  house  or  to  see  me  at 
the  Mission  would  be  embarrassing  to  him.  I 
feel  that  I  can  be  of  some  service,  and  since  I 
must  choose  between  an  uptown  convention  and 
helping  save  a  man,  I  have  decided  to  sacrifice 
convention.  It  seems  strange,  doesn't  it?" 

He  did  not  reply  to  her  sarcasm,  but  he  still 
disapproved.  There  were  so  many  things  of 
which  he  disapproved  that  even  had  he  been  free 
to  criticise  he  would  have  felt  the  futility  of  strik- 
ing at  any  single  fault.  He  prayed  for  the 
eradication  of  all  this  part  of  her  life,  and  her 
restoration  to  normal  views ;  first,  because  he  hon- 
estly disbelieved  in  the  work  that  interested  her ; 
second,  because  he  reasoned  that  while  she  gave 
so  much  interest  to  the  poor  she  was  likely  to  have 
little  interest  left  to  give  to  his  suit. 

They  paused  before  David's  window.    David, 


glancing  out,  saw  Allen  not  ten  feet  away  and 
heard  Helen  say,  "I  wish  so  much  you  would  talk 
with  Mr.  Aldrich."  For  a  moment  his  heart 
stood  still.  Then  he  sprang  toward  the  door,  in- 
tending to  escape  the  back  way,  but  it  occurred 
to  him  that  perhaps  Allen  might  not  come  in,  and 
that  to  avoid  him  by  running  away  was  also  to 
miss  Helen.  He  left  the  door  ajar,  to  aid  a 
quick  flight  if  Allen  started  in,  and  peered 
through  the  window  at  the  couple,  as  alert  as  a 
"set"  runner  waiting  the  pistol-shot. 

They  were  a  splendid  pair,  David  had  to  admit 
to  himself — both  tall,  she  with  the  grace  of  per- 
fect womanhood,  he  with  the  poise  and  dignity 
of  power  and  success.  She  was  a  woman  to 
honour  any  man's  life ;  he — David  now  knew  of 
Allen's  brilliant  achievements  and  brilliant  fu- 
ture— had  a  life  worth  any  woman's  honouring. 
Yes,  they  were  a  splendid  pair. 

Presently  Allen  bowed  and  went  away,  and  the 
next  moment  David  opened  the  door  fcr  Helen. 
He  was  grateful  to  the  dusk  for  mufflirg  his  agi- 
tation; and  doubly  grateful  to  it  when  she  said, 
after  giving  him  a  firm  pressure  froir  her  hand: 

"I've  been  trying  to  arrange  with  a  friend — 
Mr.  Allen — to  have  a  talk  with  you  some  day.  I 
hope  you  may  soon  meet." 

"Thank  you,"  said  David. 

She  suggested  that  they  walk,  and  a  few  min- 
utes later,  David  reciting  the  outline  of  his  story, 
they  entered  Second  Avenue,  the  East  Side's 
boulevard,  always  thronged  with  business  folk, 
shoppers,  promenaders,  students.  They  forgot 
the  crowds  through  which  they  wove  their  way, 
forgot  even  that  they  walked,  and  it  was  a  sur* 


212  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

prise  to  both  when  they  found  themselves,  just  as 
David  finished,  before  her  home. 

She  looked  at  his  erect  figure,  at  his  glowing, 
excited  face.  "I  think  it's  going  to  be  splendid!" 
she  cried. 

"I  think  so  myself,"  he  returned,  with  an  ex- 
ultant little  laugh.  "So  a  man  always  feels  at 
first.  But  when  the  cold  and  clammy  days  have 
come,  when  your  fires  have  all  gone  out  and 
there's  nothing  but  ashes  left  in  your  imagina- 
tion  " 

"Then,"  she  broke  in  quickly,  "you  must  just 
keep  going. 

* tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd, 

Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill'd.' 

That's  worth  remembering.  But  let's  walk  on 
for  a  few  minutes.  There's  something  I  want  to 
say." 

She  was  silent  for  the  greater  part  of  a  block. 
"One  of  our  friends  that  we  see  much  of  is  a 
publisher.  He  tells  me  that,  though  a  novel  may 
not  sell  enough  to  pay  for  the  typewriting,  it  is 
pretty  certain,  if  it  has  any  merit,  to  yield  several 
hundred  dollars.  If  it  has  an  active  sale  it  may 
yield  several  thousand,  and  if  it  gets  to  the  front 
of  the  big  sellers  it  may  yield  a  small  fortune. 
I  was  thinking  that  if  your  book  should  go  even 
moderately  well,  what  a  great  deal  it  would  help 
— toward — I  mean  what  a  great  deal  it  would 
help  you." 

She  looked  at  him  expectantly.  Her  voice 
and  her  manner  had  had  a  background  of  con- 
straint, and  David  vaguely  felt  that  her  meaning 


ON  THE  UPWARD  PATH       213 

was  not  in  her  words,  but  was  lurking  behind 
them. 

"Yes?"  he  said,  wonderingly. 

The  constraint  was  more  marked  as  she  contin- 
ued, with  an  effort :  "Perhaps  you  might  get — 
five  thousand  dollars  for  it." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  his  wonderment  rising. 

The  constraint  and  effort  were  even  greater  as 
she  replied:  "Well,  that  would  do  so  much  to- 
ward clearing  your  name  1" 

Her  meaning  leaped  forth  from  its  lurking 
place.  For  a  moment  he  was  completely  stupe- 
fied. .  .  .  She  wanted  him  to  repay  the 
stolen  money  to  St.  Christopher's ! 

He  felt  her  eyes  upon  him,  waiting.  "Yes — 
it  would  help,"  he  said,  mechanically. 

They  turned  back.  She  saw  he  was  far  away. 
She  did  not  speak.  First  came  to  him  the  ab- 
surdity of  his  trying  to  repay  with  his  present 
earnings — fifty  years  of  utmost  saving.  But  he 
pressed  down  the  bitter  laugh  that  rose.  She 
was  right;  if  he  was  ever  to  clear  his  name  he 
must  refund  the  money  to  the  Mission.  Perhaps 
the  book  would  repay  it ;  perhaps  years  and  years 
of  work  would  be  required.  But  repay  it  he 
must.  There  was  no  other  way. 

He  looked  up  as  they  paused  again  before  her 
house.  "Yes — I  will  repay,"  he  said. 

She  reached  out  her  hand.  Its  grasp  was 
warm,  tight. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said,  with  a  directness,  a  sim- 
plicity, that  thrilled  him.  "I'm  so  glad!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOHN  ROGERS 

DAVID  flung  himself  at  the  story  as  though 
it  were  a  city  to  be  taken  by  storm.  He 
was  full  of  power,  of  creative  fury.  His  long- 
disused  pen  at  first  was  stubborn,  but  gradually 
he  re-broke  it  to  work ;  and  he  wrote  with  an  ease, 
a  surety  of  touch,  a  fire,  that  he  had  never  felt 
before.  He  had  half-a-dozen  separate  incen- 
tives, and  the  sum  of  these  was  a  vast  energy 
that  drove  him  conqueringly  through  obstacle 
after  obstacle  of  the  story. 

These  early  days  of  the  story  were  high  days 
with  him.  He  forgot,  when  writing,  his  base- 
ment room,  his  janitor's  work,  his  dishonour. 
Infinity  lay  between  the  end  of  December  and 
the  end  of  January;  in  a  month  his  spirits  had 
risen  from  nadir  to  zenith.  The  world  was  his; 
nothing  seemed  beyond  him.  He  even  dared 
dream  of  passing  Allen  upon  some  mid-level  and 
winning  to  the  highest  place  in  Helen  Chambers's 
regard.  The  exhaustion  of  spirit  at  the  end  of 
each  day's  writing  quenched  this  dream;  but  it 
was  nevertheless  enrapturing  while  it  lasted,  and 
at  times  David  came  near  believing  in  it. 

David  had  asked  both  Rogers  and  the  Mayor 
to  aid  him  in  securing  Tom  a  bona-fide  position, 
and  after  the  boy  had  been  running  the  Pan- 
American  Cafe  for  a  month,  a  place  was  found. 

214 


JOHN  ROGERS  215 

Tom's  wages  had  been  a  heavy  drain  upon 
David's  meagre  income,  and  it  was  with  a  feel- 
ing of  relief  that  David  announced  the  coming 
change  one  night  as  they  were  preparing  for  bed. 

"I've  got  some  great  news  for  you,  Tom,"  he 
began. 

"What's  dat?"  asked  the  boy,  dropping  the 
shoe  he  had  just  taken  off. 

"A  new  job!"  cried  David,  trying  to  infect 
Tom  writh  enthusiasm.  "Delivery-boy  on  a 
wagon.  You're  to  get  four  dollars  a  week — a 
dollar  more  than  you're  getting.  Think  of  that ! 
You're  in  luck,  my  boy — you're  getting  rich!" 

But  David's  enthusiasm  did  not  take.  There 
came  no  sparkle  into  the  boy's  eyes,  no  eagerness 
into  his  manner.  He  looked  thoughtfully  at 
David  a  moment,  then  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  t'ink  I'll  take  it" 

"What!"  cried  David.  The  possibility  of  re- 
fusal had  not  occurred  to  him.  He  plunged  into 
a  fervent  portrayal  of  the  advantages  of  the  new 
place. 

"Mebbe  you're  right,"  Tom  said,  when  the  pic- 
ture had  been  painted.  "But  I'm  gettin'  used  to 
t'ings  at  de  Pan- American ;  I  likes  de  boss  an'  I 
likes  de  wroik.  An'  I  don't  need  de  extry  dollar. 
No,  I  don't  want  no  better  job  dan  what  I  got. 
It  suits  me  right  up  to  de  chin." 

He  walked,  in  one  shoe  and  in  one  stocking, 
across  to  David  and  held  out  his  hand.  "But, 
pard" — a  note  of  huskiness  was  in  his  voice — 
"pard,  I  appreciate  dat  you  wras  tryin'  to  do  de 
fine  t'ing  by  me.  Shake." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  Tom 
went  back  to  the  Mayor,  and  David  continued 


216  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

dropping  in  Saturdays  an  hour  before  pay-time. 

One  evening  in  early  February,  just  after 
David  had  coaled  the  furnace  and  settled  down  to 
his  story,  he  had  a  call  from  Bill  Halpin,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  since  their  first  meeting.  Halpin 
leaned  against  the  door,  after  it  had  been  closed, 
and  silently  regarded  David,  a  sneering  smile 
upon  his  face. 

"Honest!"  he  shot  out  at  length,  with  a  short, 
dry  laugh.  It  was  his  first  word  since  entering. 

David  stared  at  the  sarcastic,  saturnine  figure. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Honest!  And  I  half  believed  you !"  Again 
the  short  laugh.  "You  almost  fooled  Bill  Hal- 
pin — which  is  sayin'  you're  pretty  smooth."  He 
jerked  his  head  upward.  "What's  your  game? 
— yours  and  this  man  Rogers?" 

"See  here,  Halpin ,  what  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  you'll  say  you  don't  know  him. 
But  since  I  met  you  on  the  Bowery  I've  been 
around  here  twice,  and  both  times  I  saw  you  two 
with  your  noses  together.  You're  a  smooth  pair. 
Come,  what's  your  game?" 

"I  don't  understand  you!" 

"Don't  try  to  fool  me,  Aldrich,"  he  drawled. 
"You  can't.  But  don't  tell  me  the  game  unless 
you  want  to.  You  know  I  wouldn't  squeal  if 
you  did.  All  I  want  is  for  you  to  know  you 
can't  throw  that  honesty  'con'  into  me." 

David  strode  forward  and  laid  sharp  hold  of 
Halpin's  shoulders. 

"See  here,  Bill  Halpin,  what  the  devil  do  you 
mean?"  he  demanded. 

Halpin  looked  cynical,  good-humoured  disbe- 


JOHN  ROGERS  217 

lief  back  into  David's  eyes,  and  again  let  out  a 
dry  cackle. 

"Drop  that  actor  business  with  me,  Aldrich. 
I  don't  know  what  your  game  is — but  I  know 
there  is  a  game.  If  you  want  to  find  out  how 
much  I  know,  come  on.  Let's  go  out  and  have  a 
drink." 

An  hour  later  David  stepped  from  the  rear 
room  of  a  Bowery  saloon,  and  walked  dazedly 
through  the  spattering  slush  back  to  his  house. 
He  paused  before  it,  and  looked  irresolutely  at 
Rogers's  office  window,  whose  shade  was  faintly 
aglow.  He  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
block,  his  eyes  constantly  turning  to  the  window, 
his  mind  trying  to  determine  his  honourable 
course.  At  length  he  crossed  the  street,  entered 
the  house,  and  knocked  at  Rogers's  door. 

Rogers  admitted  him  with  a  look  of  quiet  sur- 
prise and  led  the  way  across  his  office  into  the  liv- 
ing-room behind,  whose  one  window  opened  upon 
the  air  shaft.  In  this  room  were  two  easy  chairs, 
a  couch  on  which  Rogers  slept,  a  table  with  a 
green-shaded  reading-lamp,  two  or  three  prints 
— all  utterly  without  taste.  Everything  was  in 
keeping  with  the  surface  commonplaceness  of 
the  man  except  a  row  of  shelves  containing  a 
couple  of  hundred  well-selected  books. 

Rogers  motioned  David  to  a  chair  and  he  him- 
self leaned  against  his  table,  his  hands  folded 
across  the  copy  of  "Pere  Goriot"  he  had  been 
reading. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  came  in,"  he  said,  in  his 
low,  even  voice. 

David  gazed  at  Rogers  in  his  attitude  of  wait- 
ing ease,  and  he  suddenly  felt  that  to  speak  to 


218          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

this  unsuspecting  man  was  impossible.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  perhaps  Rogers  had  caught 
his  strained  look,  and  that  perhaps  this  ease  might 
be  the  mask  of  an  agitation  as  great  as  his  own. 
He  dropped  his  eyes.  But  it  was  his  duty  to 
speak — and,  in  a  way,  his  desire.  He  forced 
himself  to  look  up.  Rogers  had  the  same  look 
and  attitude  of  quiet  waiting. 

"Mr.  Rogers,"  David  began,  with  an  effort, 
"I  have  just  been  told  something  that  I  think  I 
am  bound  to  tell  you.  You  hired  me,  befriended 
me,  in  the  belief  that  I  knew  nothing  about  you. 
I  feel  it  would  not  be  honourable  in  me  to  remain 
your  employe,  in  a  sense  your  friend,  if  I  con- 
cealed from  you  that  I  know  what  may  be  your 
secret.  And  there  is  another  reason  why  I  want 
you  to  know  that  I  know :  if  the  story  is  true,  I 
want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  sympathise." 

"Go  on,"  said  Rogers  in  his  even  voice. 

"It's  doubtless  all  a  mistake,"  said  David,  hur- 
riedly, feeling  that  it  was  not.  "I've  just  had  a 
talk  with  a  man  I  knew  in  prison — Bill  Halpin. 
He's  called  to  see  me  several  times.  He  hap- 
pened to  see  you.  Something  about  you  struck 
him  at  once  as  familiar,  but  he  could  not  recog- 
nise you.  He  saw  you  again,  and  he  thought  he 
placed  you.  He  called  here,  had  a  talk  with  you, 
and  on  going  away  purposely  shook  hands. 
There  was  no  grip  in  your  little  finger — you 
could  only  half  bend  it.  He  said  he  placed  you 
by  that."" 

Rogers  still  leaned  against  the  table,  his  fig- 
ure quiet  as  before — but  David  could  see  that 
the  quiet  was  the  quiet  of  a  bow  drawn  to  the 
arrow's  head.  The  tendons  of  his  hands,  still 


JOHN  ROGERS  219 

holding  the  book,  were  like  little  tent-ridges,  and 
his  yellowish  face  was  now  like  paper. 

"And  who  did  he  say  I  am?"  his  low  voice 
asked. 

"He  told  me  that  fifteen  years  ago  you  and  he 
were  friends,  pals — that  you  were  a  famous 
safe-breaker — that  you  were  'Red  Thorpe.' ' 

Instantly  Rogers  was  another  man — tense, 
slightly  crouching  as  though  about  to  spring,  his 
eyes  blazing,  on  his  face  the  fierce  look  of  the 
haunted  creature  that  knows  it  is  cornered  and 
that  intends  to  fight  to  the  last.  A  swift  hand 
jerked  open  a  drawer  of  the  table,  and  stretched 
toward  David.  In  it  was  a  revolver. 

David  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stepped  back. 
Rogers  glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  for 
that  moment  David  expected  anything.  Then 
suddenly  Rogers  said,  "What  a  fool! — to  be 
thinking  of  that!"  and  tossed  the  pistol  into  the 
open  drawer. 

Defiantly  erect,  he  folded  his  arms,  his  fierce 
pallor  suggestive  of  white  heat,  his  eyes  open 
furnace-doors  of  passion. 

"Well,  you've  got  me!"  he  said,  with  strange 
guttural  harshness.  "I've  been  expecting  this 
minute  for  ten  years.  What 're  you  going  to  do? 
Expose  me,  or  blackmail  me?" 

David  got  back  his  breath.  "I  don't  under- 
stand. Halpin  told  me  he  didn't  think  the  po- 
lice were  after  you." 

"They're  not.  I  don't  owe  the  State  a  min- 
ute." 

"Then  why  do  you  talk  of  exposure?" 

"You  understand — perfectly!"  His  words 
were  a  blast  of  furnace-hot  ferocity.  "You 


220  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

know  what  would  happen  if  my  clients  learned 
I'm  an  ex-convict.  They'd  take  every  house 
from  me — I'd  again  be  an  outcast.  You  know 
this;  you  know  you've  got  your  teeth  in  my 
throat.  Well — I'll  pay  blood-money.  I  have 
paid  it.  A  police  captain  found  me  out,  and 
for  five  years  sucked  my  blood — every  cent  I 
made — till  he  died.  I'll  pay  again — I  can't  help 
myself.  How  much  do  you  want? — blood- 
sucker !" 

These  hot  words,  filled  with  supremest  rage 
and  despair,  thrilled  David  infinitely;  he  felt  the 
long  struggle,  the  tragedy,  behind  them. 

"You  mistake  me,"  he  cried.  "I've  told  you 
what  I  have  because  I  thought  to  tell  was  my 
duty  to  you.  Betray  you,  or  accept  money  for 
silence — I  never  could!  Surely  you  know  I 
never  could!" 

"For  ten  years  I've  touched  no  man's  penny 
but  my  own,"  he  said  fiercely.  "In  money  mat- 
ters, I've  been  as  honest  as  God!" 

The  rage  was  dying  out  of  his  face,  and  de- 
spair was  growing — the  despair  that  sees  nothing 
but  defeat,  failure.  He  looked  unbelief  at 
David. 

"But  what  difference  does  that  make  to  you  ?" 
he  asked  bitterly.  "Well — how  much  is  it  to  be?" 

The  piercing  brothership  that  had  been  surg- 
ing up  in  David  for  this  desperate,  defiant,  sus- 
picious man,  swept  suddenly  to  the  flood. 

"Don't  you  see  that  we're  making  the  same 
fight?"  he  cried  with  passionate  earnestness.  "I 
admire  you!  I  honour  you!  Your  secret  is  as 
safe  with  me  as  in  your  own  heart." 


JOHN  ROGERS  221 

David  stretched  out  his  hand.  "I  honour 
you!"  he  said. 

For  several  moments  Rogers's  gaze  searched 
David's  soul.  "You're  speaking  the  truth — 
man?"  he  asked  in  a  slow,  harsh  whisper. 

"I  am." 

He  continued  staring  at  David's  open  face, 
flushed  with  its  fervid  kinship.  "If  you're  lying 
to  me — !"  he  whispered.  Then  he  held  out  his 
hand,  and  his  thin  fingers  gripped  about  David's 
hand  like  tight-drawn  wires. 

"During  the  month  I've  known  you,  you've 
seemed  a  white  man.  I  think  I  believe  you. 
But,  man!  don't  play  with  me!"  he  burst  out  with 
sudden  appeal.  "If  there's  any  trick  in  you,  out 
with  it  now!" 

"If  there  was,  now  would  be  my  time,  wouldn't 
it?" 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment,  hands  gripped, 
eyes  pointed  steadily  into  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  believe  you!"  Rogers  breathed,  and 
sank  into  a  chair  and  let  his  head  fall  into  his 
hand.  David  also  sat  down. 

Presently  Rogers  looked  up. 

"I  guess  I  was  very  harsh,"  he  said  weakly. 
"But  you  can't  guess  what  I  was  going  through. 
It  was  the  moment  I  had  feared  for  ten  years. 
It  seemed  that  the  world  had  fallen  from  be- 
neath me." 

"I  understand,"  said  David. 

"But  you  cannot  understand  the  ten  years  of 
fear,  of  suspense — of  fear  and  suspense  that 
walk  with  you,  eat  with  you,  sleep  with  you." 

He  sat  looking  back  into  the  years.     After  a 


222  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

space,  the  hunger  for  sympathy,  the  instinct  to 
speak  his  decade  of  repressed  bitterness, 
prompted  him  on. 

"I  was  one  of  those  thousands  and  thousands 
that  never  had  a  chance  when  boys.  I  had  no 
very  clear  idea  between  right  and  wrong;  there 
was  no  one  to  show  me  the  difference.  I  was 
full  of  life  and  energy,  and  I  had  brains.  I 
could  easily  have  been  turned  into  the  right  way 
— but  there  was  no  one.  So  I  turned  into  the 
wrong.  About  that  part  of  my  life  Halpin  told 
you." 

"He  said  you  were  the  cleverest  man  in  your 
line." 

Rogers  seemed  not  to  hear  the  praise.  "A 
man  may  begin  to  think  while  he  is  still  a  boy; 
if  he  has  spirit  and  animal  energy,  he  doesn't  be- 
gin to  think  till  later.  I  was  twenty-seven.  I 
had  been  two  years  in  Sing  Sing  and  had  three 
more  years  to  serve.  It  wasn't  the  warden's 
words  that  started  me  thinking,  nor  the  chap- 
lain's sermons.  Chaplains! — bah! — f rocked  pho- 
nographs! It  was  two  old  men  I  happened  to 
see  there — mere  cinders  of  men.  The  thought 
shot  into  me,  'There's  what  you're  going  to  be  at 
sixty-five !' 

"I  couldn't  get  away  from  that  thought.  My 
mind  forced  me  to  study  my  friends;  there  was 
not  one  old  man  among  them  who  was  living  a 
peaceful,  comfortable  life.  That  burnt-out, 
hunted  old  age — I  revolted  from  it!  I  did  a  lot 
of  thinking.  I  decided  that,  when  I  got  out, 
prison  gates  should  never  have  reason  to  close 
on  me  again. 

"Finally,  I  was  discharged.     I  knew  it  was 


JOHN  ROGERS  223 

hard  for  an  ex-convict  to  get  work,  but  I  thought 
it  would  be  easy  for  me.  I  was  willing,  clever, 
adaptable.  But — oh,  God!  you  know  what  the 
fight  is,  Aldrich!" 

"Idol"  said  David. 

Rogers  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  eyes  once  more 
glowing.  He  began  to  pace  the  floor  excitedly. 

"Your  fight  was  easy  to  mine.  But  I'll  skip 
it — you  know  what  the  fight's  like.  It's  enough 
to  say  that  I  found  the  world  would  not  receive 
me  as  my  old  self.  I  changed  my  name ;  I  grew 
a  beard ;  I  began  to  wear  glasses ;  I  dyed  my  red 
hair  brown ;  I  smothered  down  my  spirit.  I  be- 
came John  Rogers. 

"A  friend  of  mine  in  a  Chicago  real  estate  of- 
fice, in  which  I  once  worked  for  a  couple  of 
weeks  as  a  clerk,  sent  me  an  envelope  and  a  sheet 
of  paper  of  the  firm.  On  the  paper  I  wrote  a 
letter  of  recommendation  from  the  firm.  I  had 
told  my  story  to  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A — it  was 
because  he  knew  I  would  sympathise  with  you 
that  he  brought  you  to  me — and  he  helped  me. 
I  got  my  first  job. 

"Think  of  that,  Aldrich  1"  He  held  a  trem- 
bling fist  in  David's  face,  and  laughed  harshly. 
"I  had  to  become  a  disguise,  I  had  to  lie,  I  had 
to  commit  forgery,  to  get  a  chance  to  be  hon- 
est !  Oh,  isn't  this  a  sweet  world  we're  living  in ! 

"And  ever  since,  my  life  has  been  one  great  lie! 
A  lie  for  honesty!  But  the  lie  has  done  for  me 
what  truth  could  not  do.  I'm  respected  in  a 
small  way.  I'm  successful  in  a  small  way. 
But,  man,  how  that  smallness  chafes  me!  How 
I  am  shackled!  I  should  be  respected,  be  suc- 
cessful, in  a  large  way.  I'm  cleverer  than  most 


224  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

of  the  men  in  my  line.  I  have  brains.  I  see  big 
business  opportunities.  But  I  dare  not  take 
them.  I  must  always  be  pulling  back  at  the 
reins.  If  I  let  myself  out,  I  should  become 
prominent.  Men  would  begin  to  ask,  'Who  is 
that  fellow  Rogers?'  and  pretty  soon  some  one 
would  be  sure  to  find  out.  And  down  I'd  go! 
I  must  keep  myself  so  small  that  I'll  not  be  no- 
ticed— that's  my  only  safety!" 

He  paused.     David  could  say  nothing. 

"And  always  the  lie  that  saved  me  is  threaten- 
ing to  destroy  me,"  Rogers  went  on,  in  a  lower 
voice.  "God,  how  I've  worked  to  get  to  this  poor 
place !  How  I  want  to  live  peacefully,  honestly ! 
But  some  day  someone  will  find  out  I'm  an  ex- 
convict.  A  breath,  and  this  poor  house  of  cards 
I've  worked  so  hard  to  build  and  protect  will  go 
flat !  And  I  cannot  begin  all  over  again.  I  can- 
not! I  haven't  the  strength.  This  is  going  to 
happen — I  feel  it!  And  how  I  fear  it!  How 
I've  feared  it  for  ten  long  years!  Man,  man, 
how  I  fear  it!" 

He  dropped  exhausted  into  a  chair,  and  almost 
at  once  a  cough  began  to  shake  him  by  the 
shoulders. 

"And  this  disease" — a  hand  pressed  itself  upon 
his  chest — "it's  another  prison  gift!"  he  gasped, 
bitterly. 

There  was  not  a  word  in  David.  He  reached 
out  and  gathered  one  of  Rogers's  thin  hands  in 
both  of  his;  gathered  it  in  the  clasp  of  his  soul. 
The  cough  ceased  its  shaking  and  Rogers  looked 
up.  He  gazed  at  the  tears,  at  the  quivering 
brothership,  in  David's  face.  Thus  he  sat,  silent, 


JOHN  ROGERS  225 

gripping  David's  hands;  then,  slowly,  his  own 
tears  started. 

"Man,  dear,"  he  whispered  brokenly,  "I  think 
I'm  going  to  be  glad  you  found  me  out!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

HOPE  AND  DEJECTION 

A  WEEK  or  two  later  Rogers  cut  out  all 
qualifying  words  and  said  from  his  heart, 
"I'm  glad  you  know!"  He  and  David  quickly 
became  comrades;  and  many  an  hour  they  sat  in 
the  room  behind  the  office  talking  of  life,  of  phi- 
losophy, of  books.  David  now  learned  that 
Rogers  had  done  a  large  part  of  his  really  wide 
reading  while  in  prison;  and  he  now  understood 
Rogers's  frequent  mispronunciation — Rogers 
had  acquired  his  less  common  words  entirely 
from  reading,  and  never  having  heard  them 
spoken,  and  lacking  such  fundamentals  of  educa- 
tion as  rules  of  pronunciation,  he  had  for  fifteen 
years  been  pronouncing  his  new  words  as  seemed 
to  him  proper. 

David  was  surprised  to  find  that  Rogers,  for 
all  his  occasional  bitter  flashes,  was  an  optimist. 
He  often  marvelled  how  Rogers  had  retained  this 
hopefulness  for  the  world's  future;  he  could  ex- 
plain it  only  by  a  great  natural  soundness  in  the 
man.  Rogers  believed  the  world  was  marching 
forward,  and  he  often  said,  his  eyes  illumined 
with  belief:  "The  time  is  coming,  Aldrich — I 
shall  not  see  it,  and  you  may  not,  but  it's  coming 
— when  there  will  be  no  human  waste,  when  the 
world  will  have  learned  the  economy  of  men!" 

Frequently  they  discussed  society's  treatment 
226 


HOPE  AND  DEJECTION        227 

of  the  criminal,  and  David  learned  that  Rogers 
burned  with  an  indignation  as  great  as  his  own. 
If  ever  Rogers 's  obsessing  fear  should  be  ful- 
filled, if  he  should  be  found  out,  then  his  one  de- 
sire, a  desire  always  with  him,  was  to  speak  out 
his  bitter  accusation  in  the  world's  face. 

One  warm,  exuberant  Sunday  toward  the  end 
of  February,  they  walked  northward  through 
Riverside  Park,  the  broad,  glinting  Hudson  at 
their  left.  When  they  reached  the  height 
crowned  by  Grant's  tomb,  Rogers,  who  had  been 
silent  for  several  minutes,  now  and  then  slipping 
meditative  glances  at  David,  laid  a  hand  on 
David's  arm  and  brought  him  to  a  pause. 

"Look  across  yonder,"  he  whispered,  pointing 
to  the  Palisades  that  lifted  their  mighty  shoul- 
ders from  the  Hudson's  farther  edge. 

"Wonderful,  aren't  they,"  said  David,  letting 
his  eyes  travel  northward  along  the  giant  wall  till 
it  dimmed  away. 

"Yes — but  I  didn't  mean  the  view." 

Rogers  drew  nearer,  and  went  on  in  a  whisper, 
while  the  crowd  of  Sunday  promenaders  saun- 
tered by  their  backs: 

"I  told  you  I  saw  many  big  business  opportu- 
nities, and  that  I  had  to  let  them  all  pass.  Over 
there  is  one  I  did  not  let  pass.  Several  years  ago 
I  saw  that  some  of  the  people  who  were  being 
crowded  off  Manhattan  island  would  in  the  fu- 
ture live  over  there.  The  land  was  cheap  then; 
I  saw  it  would  some  day  be  immensely  valuable. 
After  a  great  deal  of  manoeuvring,  in  which  Mr. 
Hoffman  helped  me,  I  secured  an  option  for 
four  years  on  five  pieces  of  ground  that  lie  to- 
gether. A  few  months  ago  I  renewed  the  op- 


228  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

tion  for  three  more  years;  each  time  I  paid  the 
owners  a  thousand  dollars  for  the  option.  Un- 
der its  terms,  I  guarantee  them  a  big  price,  and 
they  are  bound  to  sell  the  land  only  through  me. 
So  you  see  I  am,  in  eff ect,  the  head  of  a  small 
land  syndicate.  Over  there  is  my  big  venture — 
my  big  hope." 

"And  has  the  development  you  expected 
come?" 

"It  is  coming.  I  have  learned  that  a  big  com- 
pany is  buying  all  the  land  over  there  it  can  get 
hold  of.  They're  going  to  establish  a  new  sub- 
urb. They're  buying  secretly  and  through  sev- 
eral agents ;  they  want  to  keep  the  different  hold- 
ers from  guessing  what's  up,  so  they  can  get  the 
land  at  their  own  price.  Well,  for  my  land 
they'll  have  to  pay  me  my  price  1" 

That  evening  they  called  on  Kate  Morgan. 
Once,  shortly  after  that  first  dinner  together  in 
the  Pan- American  Cafe,  when  David  had 
dropped  in  to  see  her  he  had  found  Rogers 
there,  and  he  had  discovered  on  Rogers's  con- 
trolled face  a  look  he  thought  might  betoken 
more  than  a  commonplace  interest.  Since  then 
Rogers  had  often  called,  and  that  which  David 
had  at  first  seen  as  a  possibility  he  now  saw  de- 
veloping toward  a  fact. 

Old  Jimmie  was  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  a 
"loan"  in  a  back  room,  so  they  had  Kate  and  the 
little  parlour  to  themselves.  Kate  was  in  the 
depth  of  the  blues.  David  asked  her  what  was 
the  matter. 

"Soap  I"  she  cried  fiercely.  "My  life's  noth- 
ing but  soap.  It's  'That  kind's  nine  cents  for  a 
box  of  three  cakes,  ma'am.  Three  boxes? 


HOPE  AND  DEJECTION        229 

Twenty-seven  cents,  please/  Or  it's  'this  variety 
is  thirteen  cents  a  box — regular  value  twenty- 
five.'  That's  all.  It's  just  that,  and  only  that, 
nine  hours  a  day,  six  days  a  week,  fifty-two 
weeks  a  year — soap! — soap! — soap!  Oh,  I'm 
going  soap-mad!  I  can't  stand  it!  I  won't 
stand  it!" 

She  gazed  rebelliously  at  the  two  men. 

"You  must  try  something  new,"  said  David. 

"And  please,  sir,  what'll  that  be?"  she  de- 
manded, sarcastically. 

"Something  that  will  use  your  energy  and  in- 
telligence. How  would  you  like  to  be  a  stenog- 
rapher? A  few  months  in  a  business  school 
would  fit  you  for  a  position.  You  would  de- 
velop and  advance  rapidly,  and  soon  have  a  re- 
sponsible place." 

"I'd  like  that,"  she  said,  decidedly.  "I've 
thought  of  it — I  know  I  could  do  the  work. 
But  how  about  the  months  while  I  study?  I  did 
have  a  little  money  on  hand,  but  I  couldn't  live 
and  keep  my  father  on  that  soap-counter's  five 
dollars,  so  I've  had  to  use  some  of  it  every  week. 
It's  all  gone.  I  must  live — and  I'm  broke.  No, 
I've  got  to  stick  to  the  soap!" 

"Can't  you  and  your  father  take  two  cheap 
rooms,  sell  most  of  your  furniture,  and  live  on 
the  proceeds  while  you  study?"  David  persisted. 

"Everything  here  was  bought  on  instalment. 
It's  about  half  paid  for.  If  sold,  it'd  bring 
about  enough  to  pay  off  the  balance.  I  might 
as  well  just  give  it  back  to  the  dealer." 

Rogers,  who  thus  far  had  been  silent,  now  said 
quietly :  "You  leave  the  settling  with  the  instal- 
ment dealer  to  me.  I'll  guarantee  to  get  enough 


230  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

out  of  him  to  keep  you  going  till  you're  through 
school." 

She  laughed.  "You'll  be  the  first  that  ever 
got  anything  out  of  an  instalment  dealer!" 

"I'll  get  it,"  he  assured  her.  "If  I  don't  get 
quite  enough  from  him,  I'll  borrow  the  rest  for 

you." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "That  means 
you'd  loan  it  all.  You're  mighty  kind.  But  I 
could  never  pay  it  back — to  take  it  would  be  the 
same  as  stealing.  I've  never  stolen  from  friends, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  begin  now." 

But  in  the  end  Rogers  prevailed;  and  when 
they  left  it  had  been  settled  that  Kate  was  im- 
mediately to  enter  a  business  school. 

Two  days  before — after  Tom  had  gratefully 
refused  a  second  better-paying  job — David  had 
had  a  conference  with  the  Mayor.  "I  been  doin' 
my  best  talkin'  to  get  him  to  go,"  the  Mayor  said 
despairingly,  "but  he  says  I  was  good  to  him 
when  he  needed  a  job  and  now  he's  never  goin' 
to  leave  me.  Say,  if  I  don't  get  rid  o'  him 
pretty  soon,  I  got  to  start  my  own  dish  factory. 
And  here's  an  interestin'  point  for  you,  friend: 
since  he's  had  them  better  offers  he's  been  hintin' 
at  a  raise." 

When  David  entered  his  room,  after  telling 
Rogers  good  night,  he  found  Tom,  who  had 
avoided  him  the  night  before  and  all  the  day, 
sitting  far  down  in  the  rocking-chair,  wrapped  in 
dejection.  He  understood  the  boy's  gloom,  for 
he  had  suggested  a  plan  to  the  Mayor. 

Tom  dropped  his  eyes  when  David  came  in, 
and  answered  David's  "Hello  there,"  with  only 
a  mumble.  But  at  length  he  looked  guiltily  up. 


HOPE  AND  DEJECTION        231 

"Is  dat  job  you  was  tellin'  me  about  took  yet?" 
he  asked. 

David  tried  to  wear  an  innocent  face.  "Why? 
What's  the  matter?" 

"De  boss  told  me  yesterday  he  was  losin' 
money,  dat  he'd  have  to  cut  down  his  force,  an' 
dat  he'd  have  to  let  me  go." 

"Yes?" 

"I  told  him  he'd  been  a  friend  to  me  when  I 
was  hard  up,  an'  I  was  goin'  to  stick  by  him  now't 
he  was  up  agin  it.  I  said  I  was  goin'  to  work 
for  him  for  nuttin'." 

"Oh!"  said  David. 

"But  he  wouldn't  let  me.  So  I'm  fired.  How 
about  dat  odder  job?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  taken,  Tom." 

David  pulled  a  chair  before  the  boy  and  for 
ten  minutes  spoke  his  best  persuasion  in  favour 
of  entering  school. 

"Yes,  de  Mayor  handed  me  out  de  same  line 
o'  talk.  He  told  me  what  a  lot  you'd  done  for 
me.  He  was  right,  too.  An'  he  told  me  how 
much  you  wanted  me  to  go  to  school." 

He  looked  steadily,  silently,  at  David. 
"D'you  really  want  me  to  go  as  much  as  all  dat, 
pard?" 

"There's  nothing  I'd  rather  have  you  do." 

"An*  you  won't  miss  de  free  a  week  I  been 
fetchin'  in?" 

"I  don't  think  we'll  miss  it  much." 

There  was  an  inward  struggle.  "Dere's  nut- 
tin'  I'd  not  sooner  do,  pard,"  he  said,  huskily. 
"But  since  you  want  me  to — all  right." 

The  next  morning  he  started  to  school.  At 
the  end  of  the  day  he  informed  David  that  he  was 


232  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

in  a  class  "wid  kids  knee-high  to  a  milk-bottle," 
that  his  teacher  was  "one  o'  dem  t'inks-she-is 
beauts  dat  steps  along  dainty  so  she  won't  break 
de  eart',"  and  "de  whole  biz  gives  me  de  belly- 
ache." He  was  miserable  for  weeks — and  so 
was  his  teacher — and  so  were  his  class-mates. 
But  he  gradually  became  adjusted  to  school  life, 
and  when  some  of  the  rudiments  were  fixed  in 
his  head,  he  began  to  make  rapid  progress.  He 
had  become  great  friends  with  Helen  Chambers, 
whom  he  often  saw  at  the  Mission,  and  his  desire 
to  please  her  was  another  incentive  to  succeed  in 
school. 

One  day  David  had  a  note  from  Dr.  Franklin 
inviting  him  to  call  at  the  Mission,  and  a  day  or 
two  later  Helen  explained  the  invitation.  Dr. 
Franklin  had  learned  that  David  was  living  in  the 
neighbourhood;  knowing  that  Helen  had  once 
been  friends  with  him,  he  had  spoken  of  David 
to  her;  she  had  told  of  David's  struggle  and  his 
purpose — and  the  invitation  was  the  consequence. 
Helen  advised  David  to  accept,  and  one  even- 
ing he  called.  The  gray  old  man  received  him  in 
such  a  spirit  of  unobtrusive  forgiveness,  referred 
only  vaguely  and  hastily  to  the  theft,  praised 
him  so  sincerely  for  his  struggle,  and  spoke  so 
hopefully  of  the  future,  that  David  could  take 
none  of  it  amiss.  He  had  to  like  the  man,  and 
be  glad  that  such  a  one  was  Morton's  successor. 

When  he  left  he  gazed  long  at  the  glowing  me- 
morial window,  which  was  now  restored.  What 
resentment  there  continued  in  his  heart  was  for 
the  moment  swept  out.  He  was  glad  that  Mor- 
ton's memory  was  clear — glad  it  was  his  dishon- 
our that  kept  the  memory  so. 


HOPE  AND  DEJECTION        233 

All  this  time  David  worked  hard  upon  his 
story — becoming  closer  friends  with  Rogers, 
frequently  seeing  Kate,  who  was  studying  with 
all  her  energy,  occasionally  meeting  Dr.  Frank- 
lin, and  now  and  then  walking  with  Helen  from 
the  Mission  to  her  car,  or  part  of  the  way  to  her 
home.  Most  of  the  time  his  belief  in  the  story 
was  strong,  and  he  worked  with  eagerness  and 
with  a  sense  that  what  he  wrote  had  life  and  soul. 
But  at  intervals  depression  threw  him  into  its 
black  pit,  and  all  his  confidence,  his  strength  of 
will,  were  required  to  drag  himself  out. 

Several  times  Helen  Chambers  rescued  him. 
Once  she  took  him  to  visit  her  Uncle  Henry, 
whom  she  had  told  of  David's  struggle.  The 
old  man's  genial  courtesy,  and  genuine  interest 
in  the  book,  were  an  inspiration  for  days.  And 
once  she  forced  him  to  come  to  her  home  and 
read  to  her  a  part  of  what  he  had  written;  and 
her  eager  praise  lifted  him  again  into  the  sun- 
light of  enthusiasm. 

So,  working  hard,  the  winter  softened  into 
spring,  the  spring  warmed  into  summer,  the  sum- 
mer sharpened  into  early  autumn — and  the  book 
was  done.  He  immediately  sent  it,  as  he  had 
promised,  to  Helen,  who  was  then  at  one  of  the 
family's  country  places.  Three  days  afterward 
there  came  a  note  from  her.  It  told  how  the 
story  had  gripped  her,  and  how  it  had  gripped 
her  Uncle  Henry,  who  was  visiting  them — how 
big  it  was  just  as  a  story — how  splendid  it  was  in 
purpose;  it  told  what  a  great  promise  the  book 
was  for  his  future;  and  finally  it  told  that  she 
had  sent  the  manuscript  to  her  publisher  friend. 

But  the  flames  of  enthusiasm  enkindled  by  this 


284          ,TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

note  sank  and  died  away;  and  he  was  possessed 
by  the  soul-chilling  reaction,  the  utter  disbelief 
in  what  one  has  done,  that  so  often  follows  the 
completion  of  a  sustained  imaginative  task.  His 
people  were  wooden,  their  talk  wooden,  their  ac- 
tion wooden,  and  the  wires  that  were  their  vital 
force  were  visible  to  the  dullest  eye.  Helen,  he 
told  himself,  had  judged  his  work  with  the  leni- 
ency of  a  friend  for  a  friend.  Hers  was  not  a 
critical  estimate.  He  knew  that  the  publisher's 
answer,  when  it  came  after  the  lapse  of  a  month 
or  two  months,  would  be  the  formal  return  of  his 
manuscript.  Success  meant  too  much  to  him  to 
be  possible — his  promotion  to  more  pleasant 
work,  a  rise  in  the  world's  opinion,  the  partial  re- 
payment of  his  debt,  a  higher  place  in  Helen's 
regard,  the  beginning  of  his  dreamed-of  part  in 
saving  the  human  waste. 

No,  these  things  were  not  for  him.  He  had 
failed  too  often  with  his  pen  for  success  to  come 
at  last. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ROGERS  MAKES  AN  OFFER 

THE  October  day  was  sinking  to  its  close  as 
David,  who  was  walking  southward  through 
Broadway,  came  to  a  pause  at  Thirty-fourth 
Street  to  wait  till  a  passage  should  break  through 
the  vortex  of  cabs,  trucks,  and  street  cars,  created 
here  by  the  crossing  of  three  counter-currents  of 
traffic. 

As  he  stood  waiting  he  saw  a  woman  in  disar- 
ranged dress,  about  whom  there  instantly  seemed 
to  be  a  vaguely  familiar  air,  step  from  the  crowd 
and  walk  unsteadily  into  the  turbulence  of  vehi- 
cles. A  policeman  called  a  sharp  warning  to 
her,  but  she  went  on,  and  the  next  second  the 
shoulder  of  a  horse  sent  her  to  the  pavement,  and 
only  the  prompt  backward  jerking  of  the  driver 
saved  her  from  the  horse's  feet.  The  policeman 
dragged  her  out  of  danger,  and  David  joined  the 
curious  group  that  ringed  the  pair. 

"That'll  be  your  finish  some  day  if  you  don't 
leave  the  bottle  alone,"  he  head  the  policeman  say 
severely. 

Her  answer  was  a  reckless,  half-fearful 
laugh.  Her  voice  roused  again  in  David  the 
sense  of  vague  familiarity.  Presently  she 
turned  her  face.  It  was  the  face  of  Lillian 
Drew. 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment,  then,  careful  to 
235 


236  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

hide  himself  from  her  eyes,  he  hurried  through 
the  passage  that  had  opened,  and  on  down 
crowded  Broadway.  The  sight  of  her  had 
startled  him  deeply.  His  one  meeting  with  her 
flashed  back  into  his  mind,  and  all  the  horrible 
business  of  his  discovery  of  Morton's  guilt,  his 
own  accusation,  his  trial,  his  sentence — and  he 
lived  them  through  again  with  sickening  vivid- 
ness. 

Presently  he  began  to  study  if  there  was  any 
way  in  which  Lillian  Drew  might  affect  the  fu- 
ture. Morton  she  could  not  injure.  Morton 
was  too  long  dead;  she  had  sunk  to  too  low  a  level 
for  her  unsupported  word  to  have  belief,  and 
the  letters  which  were  her  only  power  had  been 
ashes  these  five  years.  As  for  himself,  him  she 
could  not  touch.  No,  Lillian  Drew  was  harm- 
less. 

And  yet  he  could  not  wholly  rid  himself  of  a 
feeling  of  uneasiness. 

When  David  reached  home  he  found  Tom 
waiting  at  the  head  of  the  little  stairway  that  led 
down  into  the  basement.  The  boy  had  grown 
much  in  the  last  nine  months,  and  the  pinched 
look  had  given  place  to  a  healthy  fulness.  But 
he  was  still  the  same  boy:  his  cowlick  still  was 
like  a  curling  wa  ve ;  his  clothes  would  not  stay  in 
order,  nor  his  hands  clean,  despite  his  desire  to 
please  David  and  Helen  Chambers ;  and  the  ver- 
nacular of  the  street,  notwithstanding  his  efforts 
to  "talk  schoolroom,"  still  mastered  his  tongue. 

He  stopped  David  with  an  air  of  subdued  ex- 
citement. "Say,"  he  whispered,  "de  owner  o'  de 
house  here,  he's  downstairs  waitin'  for  you.  And 
say! — but  ain't  he  mad!" 


The  owner  of  the  tenement,  who  had  recently 
moved  into  another  house  he  owned  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, had  before  shown  an  irascible  disposi- 
tion to  interfere  in  the  tenement's  management, 
so  Tom's  news  was  no  surprise  to  David. 

"What's  he  want?" 

"I  dunno.  But  he's  swearin'  like  he'd  like  to 
eat  you  alive." 

The  owner,  drawn  by  their  voices,  came  out  of 
David's  room  and  mounted  the  steps.  He  be- 
longed to  that  class  of  men  whose  life  is  a  bal- 
ance between  gratification  of  appetite  and  the 
relentless  pursuit  of  small  gain,  and  his  coarse, 
full-lipped,  small-eyed  face  bore  the  family  like- 
ness. 

"Ain't  you  this  fellow  Aldrich?"  he  de- 
manded aggressively,  blocking  the  head  of  the 
stairway. 

"You  know  I  am,"  said  David. 

"Yes — but  I  wanted  to  hear  you  confess  it 
with  your  own  lips.  I  have  been  hearin'  about 
you  from  St.  Christopher's  Mission.  Ain't  you 
the  fellow  that  stole  that  money  from  there?" 

David  saw  the  brink  of  a  new  disaster.  But 
the  owner's  manner  made  him  bristle. 

"Well?" 

"Well,  no  crook  can  be  janitor  in  my  house! 
Take  your  things  out  o'  that  room,  and  git!" 

David  wanted  to  seize  the  owner  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  shake  his  mean  little  soul  out  upon  the 
sidewalk.  "I  take  my  orders  from  Mr.  Rogers," 
he  returned,  controlling  himself. 

"And  Rogers  takes  his  orders  from  me.  See? 
Now  you  git!" 

"Rogers  is  my  employer." 


238  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  swore  fiercely  at  David.  "Get  too  fresh, 
you  dirty  thief,  and  I'll  punch  your  face  in!" 

"Please  try!" 

He  looked  into  David's  gleaming  eyes,  at  the 
shoulders  that  promised  too  much  strength,  and 
his  threatening  attitude  subsided. 

x'Well,  if  you  won't  go  for  me,  we'll  see  what 
you'll  say  to  Rogers!"  he  snorted.  "You  come 
with  me  to  his  office." 

"If  you  want  me,  you'll  find  me  in  my  room." 

David  brushed  roughly  by  the  owner  and  went 
down  the  stairway.  A  minute  later,  the  owner 
and  Rogers  entered  the  room. 

"Now  you  fire  him,"  the  owner  ordered  Rog- 
ers. "I  ain't  goin'  to  have  no  jailbirds  around." 

"But  he's  given  most  excellent  service  for  al- 
most a  year,"  Rogers  protested  in  his  quiet  voice. 

"I  ain't  to  be  fooled  by  that  trick,"  sneered  the 
owner,  with  a  wise  look.  "I  ain't  one  o'  them 
muckheads  that  believes  because  a  thief's  been 
straight  for  nine  months  he's  always  goin'  to  be 
straight.  No  sir!  He's  nine  months  nearer  his 
next  crooked  stunt !  Now  fire  him." 

"But—" 

"Cut  out  your  'buts'!"  he  roared,  savagely. 
"Fire  him  or" — he  looked  threateningly  at  Rog- 
ers— "there's  agents  that  will!" 

Rogers  turned  slowly  upon  David  who  was 
standing  beside  his  table  with  burning  eyes  and 
clenched  face. 

"I  think  you'll  have  to  go,  Aldrich,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment. 

Without  a  word  David  picked  up  his  hat  and, 
followed  by  Tom,  walked  out  of  the  room.  As 
he  tramped  hotly  through  the  streets — the  boy, 


ROGERS  MAKES  AN  OFFER    239 

pale  and  silent,  beside  him — his  bitterness  was  at 
first  directed  even  against  Rogers.  But  in  a  lit- 
tle while  he  remembered  Rogers's  situation,  and 
that  Rogers  could  not  have  saved  him — and  the 
bitterness  ran  out  of  him.  In  its  place  came  the 
sharp  realisation  that  he  was  again  in  the  abyss — 
stronger,  better  able  than  a  year  before  to  make 
his  way  from  its  smooth-walled  depths — but 
nevertheless  in  the  abyss.  What  should  he  do? 
how  should  he  get  out? — these  questions  were 
constantly  begging  answers  till,  two  hours  later, 
wearied  from  walking,  he  came  again  into  his 
room. 

Rogers  rose  from  his  table  as  he  entered  and 
looked  questioningly  at  him. 

"You  understand? — I  had  to  do  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  David,  taking  the  hand  he  held 
out. 

Rogers  sent  Tom  out  on  an  errand.  After 
the  boy  had  gone,  anger  slowly  lit  its  fires  in 
Rogers's  thin  white  cheeks. 

"The  hardest  part  of  it  all  is,  I  dare  not  be  a 
man,  be  myself  1"  he  burst  out  fiercely.  "You 
don't  know  how  heavy  and  revolting  this  mask 
of  discretion,  of  control,  of  subserviency,  be- 
comes at  times!  He  should  have  been  kicked 
out,  stamped  on!  Ah,  to  be  unafraid! — that's 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  world !" 

He  stood  leaning  on  his  tightened  fists,  which 
rested  on  the  table,  his  eyes  blazing  across  at 
David.  But  after  a  moment  the  red  and  flame 
began  to  die  from  his  face  and  eyes. 

"Come,  sit  down,"  he  said  abruptly.  "There's 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

They  both  took  chairs.     "I've  been  thinking 


240  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

of  a  plan  for  several  weeks,  and  I  guess  this  is 
the  time  to  tell  you,"  Rogers  began.  "As  you 
know,  the  land  syndicate  that's  been  secretly  buy- 
ing in  land  up  along  the  Palisades  has  been  send- 
ing its  agents  to  me.  The  syndicate  is  still  keep- 
ing itself  in  the  dark,  but  I've  learned  that  it's 
called  the  New  Jersey  Home  Company,  and  that 
Alexander  Chambers  is  its  president.  The  ac- 
tive work  of  making  a  deal  with  them  has  just 
begun,  and  the  deal  ought  to  come  to  a  head  in 
a  month  or  six  weeks." 

He  paused  and  gazed  steadily  at  David,  his 
thin  face  drawing  with  despair.  Then  he  said  in 
a  low  voice: 

"Haven't  you  noticed — during  the  last  year — 
I've  been  losing  strength?" 

David  nodded. 

"Yes — these  prison  lungs!"  he  breathed,  with 
fierce  bitterness.  "I  saw  my  doctor  last  week. 
He  told  me  in  this  climate  I  might  last  a  year — a 
little  more,  a  little  less.  If  I  went  to  Colorado 
or  New  Mexico  I  might  last  several  years,  might 
even  get  well.  That's  what  I  want  to  do — fin- 
ish up  this  deal,  then  drop  everything  and  go 
West. 

"He  told  me  I  must  do  no  work,  and  keep 
away  from  excitement.  I  knew  that  already. 
Yet  this  deal's  going  to  mean  a  lot  of  both.  I 
simply  haven't  got  the  strength  to  see  it  through. 
I  must  have  someone  to  help  me — and  I  want 
that  someone  to  be  you." 

"Me!"  cried  David.  "Why,  I  don't  know  the 
first  thing  about  real  estate." 

"You  don't  need  to.  The  chief  thing  will  be 
just  to  stick  to  the  price  I  set.  There'll  be  a  lot 


ROGERS  MAKES  AN  OFFER   241 

of  stiff  talking — you  can  do  that.  And  Mr. 
Hoffman  will  help  some ;  he's  got  a  little  interest 
in  the  deal." 

"But  my  record.  They'll  doubtless  learn 
about  it.  Aren't  you  afraid  that  may  endanger 
you?" 

"I  count  that  they'll  say  I've  taken  you  in  to 
give  you  a  new  chance  in  life — and  perhaps  think 
no  more  about  it.  As  for  the  danger,  I'd  rather 
have  a  man  I  can  trust  whose  record  they  may 
find  out,  than  have  near  me  a  man  who  may  find 
out  my  record — and  tell." 

David  nodded.     "I  see  your  point." 

"You'll  be  with  me,  won't  you?" 

"Can  a  drowning  man  refuse  a  rope  thrown 
him?" 

They  shook  hands. 

"The  financial  situation  is  like  this,"  Rogers 
went  on.  "In  my  option  I  guaranteed  the  own- 
ers to  sell  the  land  for  one  hundred  and  fifteen 
thousand;  I  had  to  guarantee  high  to  keep  the 
land.  I  am  to  have  half  of  all  I  get  over  that 
amount,  and  in  addition,  an  agent's  commission 
of  five  per  cent,  of  the  sale  price.  I  am  demand- 
ing from  the  syndicate  a  very  much  larger  price 
than  it  has  been  paying  for  similar  tracts.  And 
I'll  get  my  price,  too — for  they  must  have  the 
land;  and  besides,  the  price  is  fair,  much  less 
than  the  land  is  worth  to  the  syndicate.  I'm 
asking  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand. 

"That  makes  my  share  twenty-five  thousand. 
And  I  shall  have  earned  it.  Several  times  in  the 
last  five  years  the  owners — they're  a  pretty  weak 
lot — have  wanted  to  sell  at  insignificant  prices, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  them.  And  if  I  hadn't  been 


242  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

holding  them  together,  they  would  have  sold  out 
months  ago  to  the  syndicate  at  the  syndicate's 
price — eighty  or  ninety  thousand.  So  you  see 
I'm  doing  a  mighty  good  thing  for  the  owners. 

"Now  as  to  terms  between  you  and  me. 
Twenty-five  thousand  is  more  than  I'll  need  even 
if  I  live  longer  than  the  doctor  has  promised  me. 
Now  I  know  what  you  want  to  do  about  that 
Mission  money.  If  the  deal  comes  off  as  I  ex- 
pect, five  thousand  will  be  your  share." 

"Five  thousand  dollars!"  gasped  David.  "For 
a  month's  work?  I  can't  take  it.  I  shall  not 
have  earned  the  smallest  fraction  of  it !" 

"Yes,  you  will  take  it.  Without  your  help, 
I'll  fail — so  you'll  earn  it  all  right.  Besides, 
even  if  you  didn't  earn  it,  with  whom  should  I 
divide  the  money  I  don't  need  if  not  with  you?" 

David  still  objected,  and  at  length  Rogers 
cried  out : 

"Oh,  take  it  as  a  loan,  then,  and  pay  off  the 
Mission  I  You'd  rather  owe  me  than  it,  wouldn't 
you?  You  can  pay  me  back  when  I  need  it. 
The  proposition  is  the  same  either  way,  for  I'll 
be  dead  before  I  need  it,  and  I'll  make  you  a 
present  of  the  amount  in  my  will." 

In  the  end  David  consented.  Rogers  went  on 
with  the  other  details  of  his  plan.  David  should 
live  with  him,  and  Tom  could  sleep  on  a  cot  in 
the  office.  It  would  be  wise,  with  this  big  deal 
on,  to  make  a  more  pretentious  office  show ;  Kate 
Morgan  (he  spoke  of  her  calmly,  but  David  sur- 
mised the  quality  of  the  calmness  within),  who 
had  recently  finished  her  business  course  and  was 
looking  for  a  better  place  than  her  present  one, 
should  be  their  stenographer.  For  the  sake  of 


ROGERS  MAKES  AN  OFFER   243 

the  help  it  would  be  to  her,  and  to  try  the  effect 
of  the  work-cure  upon  him,  old  Jimmie  should 
succeed  to  David's  place  as  janitor,  and  of  course 
he  and  Kate  should  have  the  basement  flat  as 
their  home. 

When  Rogers  had  gone  David  walked  up  and 
down  his  basement  room — his  last  night  there! — 
and  looked  excitedly  into  the  future.  The  book 
— he  expected  nothing  of  that.  But  here  only  a 
month  away,  almost  within  his  hand,  was  the 
sum  which,  as  far  as  money  alone  could  pay  for 
it,  would  buy  his  fair  name.  He  felt  an  impulse 
to  write  Helen  of  the  great  promise  the  next 
month  held,  but  the  memory  that  her  father  was 
engaged  on  the  other  side  vaguely  prompted  him 
not  to  do  so;  and  then  came  the  second  thought 
that  it  would  be  better  to  surprise  her.  Yes,  he 
would  wait  till  he  had  repaid  the  money  to  St. 
Christopher's,  and  then  go  to  her  with  the  re- 
ceipt in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MAYOR  AND  THE  INEVITABLE 

AfT  the  end  of  a  few  days  Jimmie  Morgan 
had  been  settled  into  David's  place,  and 
David  was  established  in  Rogers's  room  and 
thoroughly  drilled  into  his  part.  Finally,  to- 
ward the  last  of  the  week,  a  rented  typewriter 
was  installed  in  the  office  and  Kate  Morgan  in- 
stalled before  it. 

"As  I  told  you,  there'll  be  little  for  you  to 
do,"  Rogers  said  to  her  the  afternoon  she  began 
work.  "When  anybody's  about  you  can  make  a 
show  of  being  busy — but  the  rest  of  the  time  do 
as  you  please." 

He  went  into  his  room  and  closed  the  door. 
Kate  turned  to  David,  who  sat  at  a  desk  beside 
her  looking  a  very  different  man  in  the  well- 
tailored  suit  Rogers  had  made  him  buy. 

"Isn't  he  fine!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"He  certainly  is,"  David  returned  warmly. 

"The  way  he  pretended  to  get  all  that  money 
for  our  furniture!  But  I'll  pay  him  back  some 
day — you  see.  I  didn't  think  I  could,  but  I 
know  now  that  after  a  little  experience  I'll  be 
making  good  money.  They  told  me  at  the 
school  I  was  the  fastest  girl  on  the  machine 
they'd  had  for  years.  Some  day  I  hope  my 
chance'll  come  to  do  him  a  good  turn." 

David  wondered  if  she  guessed,  as  he  had,  the 
244 


THE  INEVITABLE  245 

kind  of  turn  Rogers,  in  his  dreams,  would  like 
best  for  her  to  do  him.  She  had  guessed,  and 
she  guessed  too  what  was  running  that  instant  in 
David's  brain,  for  she  shook  her  head  and  whis- 
pered meaningly : 

"You  know  I  don't  care  for  him  that  way." 

David  looked  abruptly  back  at  his  desk,  and 
her  machine  began  a  whizzing  tattoo  that  fully 
corroborated  the  statement  of  her  teachers.  But 
Kate  as  he  had  first  known  her  a  year  before 
came  into  his  mind,  and  his  eyes  slipped  surrep- 
titiously up  to  view  the  contrast.  She  wore  a 
white  cotton  dress,  its  folds  as  smooth  as  the  iron's 
bottom,  in  which  she  looked  very  fresh  and  girl- 
ish. The  hardness  and  cynicism  had  gone  from 
her  face,  and  her  exaggerated  pompadour  had 
subsided  into  a  dressing  which  allowed  the  hair  to 
fall  loosely  about  brow  and  ears,  lending  an  illu- 
sion of  fulness  to  her  rather  thin  face.  She  was 
a  far  softer,  far  more  controlled  Kate  Morgan 
than  the  Kate  Morgan  who  had  been  his  first 
post-prison  friend.  But  the  control,  he  knew,  . 
had  not  extinguished  her  old  personality.  It 
was  there,  ready  to  flame  forth  when  occasion 
provoked  it. 

That  evening,  in  response  to  a  request  sent 
down  by  the  Mayor  of  Avenue  A,  David  went 
up  to  the  Mayor's  flat.  The  sitting-room  was  a 
chaos  of  chairs,  newspapers,  clothes  and  photo- 
graphs of  feminine  admirers — the  confirmed 
disorder  of  an  unmarried  man  of  forty-five. 
The  Mayor,  standing  amid  his  household  goods 
in  evening  clothes,  noted  that  David  was  observ- 
ing the  quality  of  his  housekeeping. 

"You've  seen  this  before,  Aldrich,"  he  said 


246  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

brusquely,  "so  don't  turn  your  nose  up  so  much, 
or  you'll  spoil  the  ceilin'." 

He  glanced  about  the  room.  "It  does  look 
like  I  was  boardin'  a  pet  hurricane,  don't  it,"  he 
admitted.  "Sometimes  I've  been  on  the  point  o' 
askin'  Mrs.  Hahn  (who  attended  to  the  three- 
room  flat)  to  clean  up  a  bit — but,  oh  say!  I  can't 
boss  a  woman  1" 

Early  in  their  friendship  the  Mayor  had  dis- 
covered that  David  had  some  acquaintance  with 
the  social  customs  of  Fifth  Avenue,  and  he  had 
gradually  adopted  David  as  his  social  and  sar- 
torial mentor — though  in  the  item  of  vests  he 
grumbled  against  David's  taste  as  altogether  too 
conservative.  So  David  was  not  now  surprised 
when  the  Mayor  said,  "I  sent  for  you  to  look 
me  over,"  stepped  into  the  best  light,  pulled  down 
his  vest  and  coat,  and  demanded  complacently: 
"Well,  friend,  do  I  look  fit  to  be  two-steppin' 
with  the  ladies?" 

David's  gaze  travelled  upward  from  the  broad, 
but  not  broad  enough,  patent-leather  shoes, 
past  his  large,  white-gloved  hands,  to  the  white 
vest  girdled  with  a  heavy  gold  chain,  across  the 
broad  and  glistening  area  of  his  evening  shirt, 
and  upward  to  the  culminating  glory  of  his  silk 
hat. 

"You  certainly  do !"  said  David. 

"I  thought  you'd  think  so,"  said  the  Mayor, 
nodding.  "When  I  get  into  my  dress  suit  I 
ain't  such  a  slouch,  am  I.  But  since  you  made 
me  quit  wearin*  them  handy  white  bows  that 
hooks  in  the  back  o'  the  neck,  my  ties  always 
look  like  I'd  tied  'em  with  my  feet.  Here,  fix 
this  blamed  thing  on  me  right." 

When  David  had  complied,  the  Mayor  low- 


THE  INEVITABLE  247 

ered  himself  into  a  chair,  taking  care  to  pull  up 
his  trousers  and  to  see  that  the  bending  did  not 
crumple  his  shirt  bosom. 

"It's  the  first  fall  affair — at  the  Liberty  As- 
sembly Hall — very  small  crowd — very  select," 
he  announced  to  David  in  a  confidential  voice 
that  could  have  been  heard  in  the  street.  "If 
only  the  dear  ladies — oh  Lord ! — leave  me  alone !" 

He  sighed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  may  look  like  a  happy  man,  friend,  but  I 
ain't.  I'm  gettin'  near  my  finish.  Yes,  sir! 
The  bunch  after  me  is  narrowin'  down  to  a  few 
—the  rest  has  sorter  dropped  out  o'  the  runnin'. 
And  them  few  is  closin'  in  on  me — closin'  in  on 
me.  They're  in  earnest,  every  one  of  'em.  .  Oh, 
you  can't  count  the  chances  I  have  to  set  alone 
with  'em  in  their  parlors,  walk  home  alone  with 
'em  at  night,  and  all  them  sort  o'  tricks.  And 
me" — he  groaned,  and  despair  made  a  vain  ef- 
fort to  wrinkle  his  smooth  face — "me,  I  like  it. 
That's  the  heU  of  it  1 

"Yes,  one's  goin'  to  get  me  sure.  I  wish  I 
knew  which  one'd  win  out.  I'd  be  almost  willin' 
to  put  my  money  on  Carrie  Becker.  I  guess 
she's  as  good  as  any  of  'em.  She's  just  had  a 
row  with  Mrs.  Schweitzer.  You  know  Mrs. 
Schweitzer  sets  in  one  corner  o'  Schweitzer's 
cafe  every  afternoon,  and  holds  a  kind  o'  recep- 
tion with  the  people  that  drop  in.  Carrie  Becker 
wants  to  marry  me  and  do  the  same  thing  in  my 
cafe,  which  is  ten  times  as  good  as  Schweitzer's. 
She  wants  to  snow  Mrs.  Schweitzer  under.  Oh, 
I'm  onto  her!  That  makes  two  reasons  she  has 
for  marryin'  me.  Yes — if  I  was  bettin',  I'd  bet 
on  Carrie  Becker." 

He  heaved  a  great  sigh  and  rose.     "Well,  I'd 


248  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

better  be  goin'.  You're  sure,  are  you,  that  I 
look  aU  right?" 

"Perfect." 

The  joy  of  living  spread  over  his  face.  "Yes, 
I  guess  I  do." 

They  walked  together  to  the  stoop.  David 
watched  the  Mayor's  progress  down  the  street, 
saw  the  heads  turn  to  stare  at  his  effulgent  am- 
plitude, and  he  guessed  how  the  Mayor's  gratifi- 
cation was  chirrupping  to  itself  beneath  the 
Mayor's  waistcoat. 

David  had  ceased  cooking  his  own  meals  since 
he  had  moved  from  his  basement  room,  and  had 
become  a  boarder  at  the  Pan-American  Cafe. 
When  he,  Rogers  and  Tom  appeared  at  break- 
fast the  next  morning  the  Mayor,  pale  and  agi- 
tated, yet  striving  to  look  composed,  hurried 
over  to  their  table. 

"I  want  to  see  you  as  soon's  you're  through 
eatin',"  he  whispered  in  David's  ear. 

"All  right,"  said  David. 

The  Mayor  kept  an  impatient  eye  on  David, 
and  the  moment  breakfast  was  done  he  was  at 
David's  side,  hat  in  hand.  "We  can't  talk  in 
here,"  he  said.  "I've  got  a  key  to  the  Liberty 
Assembly  Hall.  Let's  go  over  there."  And  ex- 
cusing themselves  to  Rogers,  he  led  David  out. 

The  big  ball-room,  scattered  about  with  the 
debris  of  the  previous  night's  pleasure,  had  in 
the  cold  light  of  morning  a  look  of  desolation 
which  even  the  mural  cascades  and  seas  and 
mountains  could  not  dispel.  The  room  was  a 
fit  setting  for  the  despairing  face  the  Mayor 
turned  upon  David  when  the  hall  door  was 
locked  behind  them.  The  Mayor  did  not  speak 


THE  INEVITABLE  249 

for  several  seconds,  held  his  gaze  straight  on 
David;  then  he  shouted,  his  mask  of  self-control 
flung  aside : 

"Well,  you  see  me!  What  d'you  think  o* 
me?" 

"What's  up? 

"It's  all  up !     I've  gone  and  done  it  1" 

"Done  what?" 

"What?— I've  done  It  I— I'm  engaged!" 

There  was  frantic  hopelessness  in  the  Mayor's 
voice  and  in  the  Mayor's  face. 

"You  don't  say  so!"  David  ejaculated. 

"I  did  say  so!" 

David  could  hardly  restrain  a  laugh  at 
the  Mayor's  desperate  appearance.  "Engaged! 
You  don't  look  it!" 

"A-a-h!  quit  your  kiddin'!"  roared  the  Mayor 
fiercely.  "This  ain't  nothin'  to  laugh  at.  It's 
serious." 

"To  which  one?"  David  queried,  with  the  re- 
quired gravity. 

"Carrie  Becker.  I  knew  she'd  get  me.  Oh, 
she's  a  slick  one  all  right!  Say,  friend,  if  you 
want  a  job  kicking  me  at  five  dollars  an  hour, 
get  busy !" 

He  began  to  pace  wildly  to  and  fro  across  the 
room,  then  let  himself  drop  with  a  groan  into  a 
chair  beneath  an  Alpine  cascade,  so  that  it 
seemed  the  water  was  splashing  upon  his  polished 
head. 

"It  was  last  night — in  this  damned  hall — in 
that  damned  corner  there — that  it  happened,"  he 
burst  out  to  David,  who  had  taken  a  chair  beside 
him.  "The  hall  was  all  fixed  up  fancy.  There 
was  a  line  o'  them  green,  shiny,  greasy-lookin* 


250  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

perpetuated  palms  across  each  corner.  What's 
anybody  want  a  hall  fixed  like  that  for! — ain't 
the  old  way  good  enough,  I'd  like  to  know? 

"Them  palms  made  little  holes,  with  settees  in- 
side, that  the  women  could  rope  you  into.  Cosy 
and  invitin' — oh,  sure!  And  about  how  many 
unmarried  females  in  the  bunch  d'you  think 
missed  tryin'  to  lead  me  in?  Nary  a  blamed 
one!  But  I  was  wise  to  their  little  game,  and 
I  says  to  myself,  'None  o*  them  palms  for 
mine.' 

"I  balked  every  time  they  led  me  that  way — 
till  that  last  dance  with  Carrie  Becker.  I  was 
prancin'  along  with  her  in  my  arms,  comfortable 
and  thinkin'  nothin'  about  danger,  when  she  says 
her  shoe's  untied  and  won't  I  fasten  it.  I'll  bet 
my  hat  she  undone  it  herself,  and  on  purpose! 
Well,  in  I  went  behind  her,  doubled  myself  up 
and  fastened  her  shoe.  I  held  out  my  arm  to 
her,  but  she  said  she  was  out  o'  breath  and  didn't 
I  want  to  rest  a  minute,  and  she  throwed  me  up 
a  smile.  You  know  she's  got  a  real  smile,  even 
if  it  has  been  workin'  forty  years.  Right  there's 
where  I  ought  t've  run,  but  I  didn't.  I  set 
down. 

"The  window  was  open,  and  outside  was  a  new 
moon.  Well,  she  leaned  over  close  to  me — you 
know  how  they  do  it ! — and  began  to  talk  about 
that  moon.  It  looked  like  a  piece  o'  pie-crust  a 
man  leaves  on  his  plate.  I  knew  it  was  time  for 
me  to  be  movin',  and  I  started  up  good  and 
quick.  But  just  then  her  hand  happened  to  fall 
on  mine — accident,  oh,  sure! — and  what  d'you 
think  I  done?  Did  I  run?  No.  I'm  a  fool. 
I  set  down.  And  it  was  good-bye  for  me. 


THE  INEVITABLE  251 

"When  a  woman  gets  hold  o'  my  hand  she's 
got  hold  o'  my  rudder,  and  she  can  steer  me  just 
about  where  she  likes.  Outside  was  the  moon, 
there  behind  them  palms  playin'  goo-goo  music 
was  the  orchestra,  and  there  beside  me  a  little 
closer'n  before  was  Carrie  Becker.  Well,  I  ain't 
no  wooden  man,  you  know;  I  like  the  ladies.  I 
began  to  get  dizzy.  I  think  I  enjoyed  it.  Yes, 
while  it  lasted  I  enjoyed  it. 

"She  said  a  few  things  to  me,  and  I  said  a  few 
things  to  her — and  pretty  soon  there  she  was, 
tellin'  me  how  unpleasant  it  was  livin'  with  her 
brother's  family.  I  was  plumb  gone  by  that 
time.  'Why  don't  you  get  married  ?'  I  asked  her. 
Oh,  yes,  I  was  squeezin'  her  hand  all  right. 
'Nobody '11  have  me/  she  said.  'Oh,  yes/  I  said, 
and  I  named  half  a  dozen.  'But  I  don't  care 
for  any  o'  them — I  only  care  for  one  man/  she 
said.  I  asked  who.  She  give  me  that  smile  o' 
hers  again  and  said,  'You/ 

"I  was  dizzy,  you  know — way  up  in  the  air, 
floatin'  on  clouds,  and — oh,  well,  I  asked  her  I  I 
ain't  goin'  to  deny  that.  I  asked  her  I  And  you 
can  bet  she  didn't  lose  no  time  sayin'  yes  and 
fallin'  on  my  shirt-front.  As  for  me — well, 
friend,  I  won't  go  into  no  details,  but  I  done 
what  was  proper  to  the  occasion.  And  I  en- 
joyed it.  Yes,  while  it  lasted  I  enjoyed  it. 

"She  didn't  give  me  no  chance  to  back  out. 
Not  much !  As  soon  as  we  come  from  behind 
them  palms  she  told,  and  then  come  the  hand- 
shakin'.  The  ladies  shook  my  hand,  too;  but 
cold — very  cold!  And  soon  they  all  wanted  to 
go  home.  Understand,  don't  you?  And  every- 
body's been  shakin'  hands  this  mornin'.  They 


252  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

think  I'm  happy.  And  I've  got  to  pretend  to 
be.  But,  oh  Lord!" 

He  glared  despairingly,  wrathfully,  at  the 
corner  wherein  had  been  enacted  the  tragedy  of 
his  wooing,  then  looked  back  at  David. 

"There's  the  whole  story.  Now  I  want  you  to 
help  me." 

"Help  you?"  queried  David.     "What  do?" 

"What  do!"  roared  the  Mayor,  sarcastically. 
"D'you  think  I'm  chasm'  down  a  best  man!" 

"If  I  can  help  you  that  way " 

"Oh,  hell!  See  here — I  want  you  to  help  me 
out  o*  this  damned  hole  I'm  in.  You  ought  to 
know  how  to  get  me  out." 

"Oh,  that's  it."  David  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment, on  his  face  the  required  seriousness. 
"There  are  only  three  ways.  Disappear  or  com- 
mit suicide " 

"Forget  it!" 

"Break  it  off  yourself " 

"And  get  kicked  out  o'  this  part  o'  town !" 

"Or  have  her  break  it  off." 

"Now  you're  comin'  to  the  point,  friend.  She 
must  break  it  off,  o'  course.  But  how'll  I  get 
her  to?" 

"Isn't  there  something  bad  in  your  past  you 
can  tell  her — so  bad  that  she'll  drop  you?" 

"Oh,  I've  tried  that  already.  As  soon  as  I 
got  outside  the  hall  last  night  and  struck  cool  air, 
I  come  to.  I  began  to  tell  her  what  a  devil  of 
a  fellow  I'd  been — part  truth,  most  lies.  Oh,  I 
laid  it  on  thick  enough !" 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"Say?    D'you  suppose  she'd  take  her  hooks 


THE  INEVITABLE  253* 

out  o' me?  Not  much!  Say?  She  said  she  was 
goin'  to  reform  me!" 

They  looked  steadily  at  each  other  for  a  long 
time;  then  David  asked: 

"You  really  want  my  advice? — my  serious  ad- 
vice?" 

"What  d'you  suppose  I  brought  you  here  for? 
Sure  I  do." 

"Here  it  is  then:     Marry  her." 

David  expected  an  outburst  from  the  Mayor, 
but  the  Mayor's  head  fell  hopelessly  forward 
into  his  hands  and  he  said  not  a  word.  David 
took  advantage  of  the  quiet  to  speak  as  elo- 
quently as  he  could  of  the  advantages  of  marry- 
ing in  the  Mayor's  case.  At  length  the  Mayor 
looked  up.  Hopelessness  was  still  in  his  face, 
but  it  was  the  hopelessness  of  resignation,  not 
the  hopelessness  of  revolt. 

"Well,  if  it  had  to  be  one  o'  them,  I'd  just  as 
soon  it  was  her,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  BAD  PENNY  TURNS  UP 

DAVID  found  a  keen  pleasure  in  the  business 
on  which  he  was  now  engaged.  For  four 
years  he  had  talked  to  no  one,  and  for  a  year  he 
had  talked  to  but  four  or  five.  Now  he  was  ac- 
tively thrown  among  men  of  the  world — Jordon, 
the  general  agent  of  the  New  Jersey  Home 
Company,  his  assistants,  and  the  attorneys  of  the 
company.  He  instinctively  measured  himself 
beside  them,  and  he  exulted,  for  though  they 
were  the  shrewder  in  business,  he  felt  himself 
bigger,  broader,  than  they. 

The  deal  progressed  hopefully.  David  dis- 
covered the  five  owners  in  Rogers's  syndicate  to 
be  five  ordinary  men,  with  no  particular  business 
courage  and  no  courage  of  any  other  kind,  and 
whose  interest  in  their  own  welfare  was  their  only 
interest  in  life.  However,  they  had  confidence 
in  Rogers's  success,  and  stood  solidly  behind 
him — which  was  all  that  could  be  desired  of  them. 
From  his  first  meeting  with  Jordon,  David,  too, 
was  confident  of  success.  Jordon  held  off, 
talked  about  preposterous  prices — but  David 
felt  surrender  beneath  the  grand  air  with  which 
the  general  agent  brushed  Rogers's  proposition 
aside.  The  company  had  to  have  the  land,  so 
it  had  to  meet  Rogers's  terms.  And  after  each 

254 


A  BAD  PENNY  TURNS  UP     255 

subsequent  meeting  David  felt  that  much  nearer 
the  day  of  surrender. 

One  morning,  two  weeks  after  he  had  entered 
upon  his  new  duties,  he  was  looking  through 
some  papers  in  the  living  room  relating  to  the 
land,  when  Kate  knocked  and  entered. 

"There's  a  woman  out  there  wants  to  see  you," 
she  said,  with  a  sharp  glance. 

"What's  she  want?" 

"She  wouldn't  tell  me.  She  said  you'd  see  her 
all  right — she  was  an  old  friend.  If  she  is,  I 
think  some  of  your  friends  had  better  sign  the 
pledge!" 

David  followed  Kate  into  the  office.  A  tall 
woman  rose  from  his  chair  and  smiled  at  him. 
It  was  Lillian  Drew.  The  life  went  out  of  him. 
He  stood  with  one  hand  against  the  door  jamb 
and  stared  at  her. 

When  he  had  seen  her  five  years  ago  she  had 
had  grace,  and  lines,  and  a  hardened  sort  of 
beauty — and  she  had  worn  silks  and  diamonds. 
Now  the  face  was  flushed,  and  coarsened,  and 
lined  with  wrinkles — the  hands  were  gemless,  the 
hair  carelessly  done — and  in  place  of  the  rich 
gown  there  was  an  ill-fitting  jacket  and  skirt. 
It  was  evident  that  for  her  the  last  five  years  had 
been  a  dizzy  incline. 

"What  a  warm  welcome!"  she  said,  with  a 
short  laugh. 

David  did  not  answer  her.  Kate's  quick  eyes 
looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Wouldn't  you  just  as  soon  our  talk  should  be 
private?"  Lillian  Drew  asked,  with  a  smile  of 
irony.  "You'd  better  run  out  for  awhile,  little 
girl." 


256  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Kate  glanced  at  her  with  instinctive  hatred. 
Lillian  Drew,  whom  the  five  years  had  made 
more  ready  with  vindictiveness,  glared  back. 
"Come,  run  along,  little  girl!" 

Kate  turned  to  David.  "You'd  better  leave 
us  alone  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  said  with  an  ef- 
fort. 

Kate  jerked  on  her  hat,  jabbed  in  the  pins, 
marched  by  Lillian  Drew  with  "you  old  cat!" 
and  passed  out  into  the  street. 

"Well,  now — what  do  you  want?"  David  de- 
manded. 

"Oh,  I've  just  come  to  return  your  call.  May 
I  sit  down? — I'm  tired."  And  smiling  her  bait- 
ing smile  she  sank  back  into  David's  chair. 

David  crossed  to  his  desk  and  looked  harshly 
down  upon  her.  "How  did  you  find  me?" 

"Surely  you  thought  I'd  look  you  up  when  I 
got  back  to  town!  I  asked  at  the  Mission.  A 
girl  in  the  office  there  wrote  your  address  down 
on  a  card  for  me.  And  told  me  a  few  things." 
She  narrowed  her  eyes — almost  all  their  once  re- 
markable brilliance  was  gone.  "A  few  things, 
mister." 

"Please  say  at  once  what  you  want,"  he  asked, 
trying  to  speak  with  restraint. 

"Just  to  see  an  old  acquaintance." 

"Come  to  the  point!"  he  said  sharply. 

"Well,  then— I'm  broke." 

"I  don't  see  why  that  brings  you  to  me." 

"Because  you're  going  to  give  me  money — 
that's  why." 

"I  certainly  will  not!" 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will — when  I  get  through  with 


A  BAD  PENNY  TURNS  UP      257 

you.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to  tell  all  I  know 
of  Phil  Morton,  now  would  you?" 

"Tell  if  you  want  to."  Anger  at  her  as  the 
cause  of  his  five  hard  years  was  rising  rapidly. 
He  pointed  savagely  to  a  mirror  that  Kate  had 
put  up  behind  the  door.  "Look  at  yourself. 
Who'll  believe  your  word?" 

"But  I  won't  ask  'em  to  believe  my  word,"  she 
said  softly,  her  eyes  gleaming  triumph  at  him. 

Her  words  and  manner  startled  him.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I'll  show  the  letters,  of  course." 

"Letters !     What  letters  ?" 

"Morton's  letters." 

"Morton's  letters!"  He  stared  at  her.  "You 
gave  them  to  me." 

"Part  of  them."  She  laughed  quietly,  and 
ran  the  tip  of  her  tongue  between  her  lips.  "Oh, 
you  were  easy!" 

David  choked  back  an  impulse  to  lay  vengeful 
hands  upon  her.  "You're  lying!"  he  said 
fiercely. 

"Oh,  lam,  ami?" 

She  slipped  a  hand  into  the  pocket  of  her  skirt, 
paused  in  the  action,  and  her  baiting  smile  turned 
to  a  look  of  threat.  "If  you  try  to  grab  them, 
if  you  make  a  move  toward  me,  I'll  scream,  peo- 
ple will  rush  in  here,  and  the  whole  thing  will 
come  out  at  once!  You  understand?" 

The  tormenting  smile  returned,  and  she  slowly 
drew  from  her  skirt  a  packet  of  yellow  letters 
held  together  by  an  elastic  band.  She  removed 
the  band,  drew  one  sheet  from  its  envelope,  and 
held  it  up  before  David's  eyes. 

"You     needn't     bother     about    reading     it. 


258          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

You've  read  one  bunch — and  they're  all  alike. 
But  look  at  the  handwriting.  I  guess  you  know 
that,  don't  you?  And  look  at  the  signature: 
'Always  with  love — Phil.'  That's  one  letter — 
there  are  fourteen  more.  And  look  at  this  pho- 
tograph of  the  two  of  us  together,  taken  while 
he  was  in  Harvard.  And  look  at  this  letter 
written  five  years  ago,  saying  he'd  send  me  five 
hundred  the  next  day — and  at  this  letter,  written 
two  days  before  he  died,  saying  he  hadn't  another 
cent  and  couldn't  get  it.  I  guess  you're  satis- 
fied." 

She  coolly  snapped  the  band  over  the  bundle 
and  returned  the  letters  to  her  pocket.  "I  guess 
I'll  get  some  money,  won't  I?" 

"I  see,"  David  remarked  steadily,  "that  I 
must  again  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that 
there  are  such  things  as  laws  against  blackmail- 
ing." 

She  looked  at  him,  amusedly.  "That  worked 
once — but  it  won't  work  twice.  Arrest  me  for 
blackmail,  and  there'll  be  a  trial,  and  at  it  the 
truth  about  Morton  will  come  out.  You  told  me 
five  years  ago  you  didn't  care  if  the  truth  did 
come  out — but  I  know  a  lot  better  now!"  She 
laughed.  "Please  send  for  a  policeman!" 

He  was  helpless,  and  his  face  showed  it. 

"Oh,  I've  got  you !  But  don't  take  it  so  hard. 
You  scared  me  out  of  town — but  I've  got  noth- 
ing against  you.  I  really  like  you;  I'm  sorry 
it's  you  I'm  troubling.  I've  got  to  have  money 
—that's  all." 

There  was  an  instant  of  faint  regret  in  her 
face — but  only  an  instant.  "Yes,  I've  got  you. 
But  I  haven't  showed  you  all  my  cards  yet. 
Mebbe  you'll  tell  me  you  won't  pay  anything  to 


A  BAD  PENNY  TURNS  UP      259 

keep  me  still  about  Phil  Morton,  who's  been 
dead  for  five  years.  All  right.  But  you'll  pay 
me  to  keep  still  about  yourself." 

David  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"You  don't  understand?  I'll  talk  plainer 
then.  I've  been  doing  a  little  putting  one  and 
one  together.  You  didn't  take  that  five  thou- 
sand dollars  from  the  Mission.  Phil  Morton 
didn't  have  a  cent  of  his  own — he  told  me  that 
when  he  was  half  crazy  with  trying  to  beg  off; 
he  said  I  was  driving  him  into  crime.  He  took 
that  money,  and  I  got  it.  Well,  for  some  rea- 
son, I  don't  know  why,  you  said  you  took  it,  and 
went  to  prison." 

Wonderment  succeeded  to  hardness  and  sar- 
casm. "  You're  a  queer  fellow,"  she  said  slowly. 
"Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Go  on!" 

"I  don't  understand  it — you're  a  queer  lot! — 
but  I  know  you've  got  your  reason  for  wanting 
to  make  the  world  think  it  was  you  that  took  the 
money  and  not  Phil  Morton.  And  I  know  it's 
a  mighty  strong  reason,  too — strong  enough  to 
make  you  willing  to  go  to  prison  and  to  keep 
still  while  people  are  calling  you  thief.  Well — 
and  here's  my  ace  of  trumps,  mister — if  you 
don't  hand  out  the  cash  I'll  tell  that  you  didn't 
take  the  money  F 

David  sank  slowly  into  Kate  Morgan's  chair, 
and  gazed  stunned  at  the  woman,  whose  look 
grew  more  and  more  triumphant  as  she  noted 
the  eif  ect  of  her  card.  His  mind  comprehended 
her  threat  only  by  degrees,  but  at  length  the 
threat's  significance  was  plain  to  him. 

If  he  didn't  pay  her,  she  would  clear  his  name, 
He  must  pay  her  money  to  retain  his  guilt. 


260          «TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"I  guess  I'll  get  the  money — don't  you  think?" 
she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer.  Temptation  closed  round 
him.  Temptation  coming  in  its  present  form 
would  have  been  stronger  in  his  darker  days,  but 
even  now  it  was  mighty  in  its  strength.  Why 
should  he  bear  his  disgrace  longer?  This  woman 
could  clear  him;  would  clear  him,  if  he  did  not 
pay.  And  he  had  no  money — almost  none.  He 
had  merely  to  say  "no" — that  was  all. 

In  these  first  dazed  moments  he  really  did  not 
know  which  was  the  voice  of  temptation  and 
which  the  voice  of  right.  One  voice  said,  "To 
refuse  will  be  to  destroy  hundreds  of  people." 
And  the  other  voice  said,  "To  pay  blackmail  is 
wrong."  Desire  took  advantage  of  this  moral 
disagreement  to  order  his  reply. 

"I  shall  not  pay  you  a  cent!" 

"Oh,  yes  you  will,"  she  returned  confidently. 

"I  shall  not! — not  a  cent!"  he  said,  with  wild 
exultation. 

"You  know  what'll  happen  if  you  don't?" 

"Yes.     You'll  tell.     AU  right— tell!" 

She  studied  his  flushed  face  and  excited  eyes. 
"You're  in  earnest?" 

"Don't  I  look  it !  I  shall  not  pay  you  a  cent ! 
Understand?  Not  a  cent!" 

He  had  risen,  and  she  too  now  rose.  "Oh, 
you'll  pay  something,"  she  said  with  a  note  of 
coaxing.  "I'm  not  as  high  as  I  once  was. 
Fifty  dollars  would  help  me  a  lot." 

"Not  a  cent!" 

"Twenty-five?" 

"Not  a  cent,  I  said." 

"Well,  you'll  wish  you  had!"  she  said  vindic- 


A  BAD  PENNY  TURNS  UP      261 

tively,  and  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  office. 

He  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  So  he  was 
going  to  be  righted  before  the  world  1 — at  lastl 
Vivid,  thrilling  dreams  flashed  through  his  brain 
— dreams  of  honour,  of  success,  of  love!  .  .  . 
Then,  slowly,  his  mind  began  to  clear;  he  began 
to  see  the  other  results  of  Lillian  Drew's  dis- 
closure. His  five  years  would  have  been  use- 
lessly spent — lost.  And  the  people  of  the  Mis- 
sion—  Quick  visions  pictured  the  consequence 
to  them. 

He  sprang  up,  holding  fast  to  just  one  idea 
among  all  that  confused  his  brain.  He  must 
stick  to  his  old  plan ;  the  people  must  keep  Mor- 
ton. He  must  find  Lillian  Drew  and  silence  her. 
But  where  find  her?  He  had  not  asked  her  ad- 
dress, he  had  not  even  watched  which  direction 
she  had  gone.  Perhaps  even  now  she  might  be 
telling  someone. 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 
As  he  came  out  upon  the  sidewalk,  a  tall  woman 
who  had  been  standing  across  the  street,  started 
over  to  meet  him.  At  sight  of  her  he  stopped, 
and  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"You're  looking  for  me ,  aren't  you?"  she 
asked,  when  she  had  come  up. 

"Yes." 

"I  knew  you'd  be  changing  your  mind,  so  I 
waited,"  she  said  with  a  smile  of  triumph.  "I 
knew  you'd  pay!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED 

T  JLLIAN  DREW,  as  she  had  said,  was  not 
•*— ^  as  high  as  she  once  was;  so  David,  after 
making  plain  to  her  his  poverty,  managed  to  put 
her  off  with  fifteen  dollars — though  for  this 
amount  she  refused  to  turn  over  the  letters.  Be- 
fore giving  her  the  money  he  asked  if  she  had 
kept  secret  her  knowledge  of  Morton,  and  her 
answer  was  such  as  to  leave  him  no  fear.  "This 
kind  of  thing  is  the  same  as  money  in  the  bank; 
telling  it  is  simply  throwing  money  away." 

After  he  had  paid  her,  and  she  had  gone,  he 
fell  meditating  upon  this  new  phase  of  his  situa- 
tion. She  would  soon  come  again,  he  knew  that 
— and  his  slender  savings  could  not  outlast  many 
visits.  When  his  money  was  gone  and  she  still 
made  demands,  what  then,  if  the  ending  of  the 
deal  was  not  fortunate? 

And,  now  that  he  was  quieter,  the  irony  of  this 
new  phase  of  his  situation  began  to  thrust  itself 
into  him.  Here  he  was,  forced  to  pay  money 
that  the  world  might  continue  to  believe  him  a 
thief!  He  laughed  harshly,  as  the  point  struck 
home.  He  and  Rogers  were  a  pair,  weren't 
they! — the  great  fear  of  one  that  he  might  be 
found  out  to  be  a  thief,  the  great  fear  of  the 
other  that  he  might  be  found  out  not  to  be  a 
thief.  What  would  Helen  Chambers  think  if 

262 


A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED  263 

she  knew  that  not  only  was  he  trying  to  pay  a 
debt  he  did  not  owe,  but  that  he  was  paying  to 
retain  that  debt? 

Presently  Rogers  came  in  and  they  started  for 
lunch,  first  leaving  a  note  that  would  send  Kate 
Morgan  on  a  long  errand  so  as  to  have  the  of- 
fice clear  for  a  conference  with  the  Mayor  in  the 
afternoon.  As  they  passed  through  the  hall 
they  brushed  by  Jimmie  Morgan,  who  hastily 
slipped  a  bottle  into  his  pocket.  The  experiment 
with  Kate's  father  had  not  been  successful. 
David  had  advised  Rogers  to  discharge  him,  but 
Rogers,  while  admitting  that  to  do  so  seemed  a 
necessity,  said  that  it  would  be  as  well  to  wait 
two  or  three  weeks,  when  the  end  of  the  land 
deal  would  send  them  all  away.  David  needed 
no  one  to  tell  him  that  what  kept  the  father  in  his 
place  was  the  fear  of  the  daughter's  disappoint- 
ment. 

An  hour  later  David  and  Rogers,  accompanied 
by  the  Mayor,  re-entered  the  office,  and  the  three 
plunged  into  a  discussion  of  matters  relating  to 
the  deal.  After  a  time  the  Mayor  asked: 

"Chambers  ain't  showed  his  hand  in  this  thing 
at  all  yet,  has  he?" 

"No,"  said  Rogers. 

"I  s'pose  he's  savin'  himself  for  the  finishin' 
touches.  He's  like  this  chap  Dumas  that  wrote 
them  stories  I  used  to  like  to  read.  He's  got  so 
many  things  goin'  on  together,  he's  only  got  time 
to  hand  out  the  original  order  and  then  take  the 
credit  when  it's  done.  But  say — did  you  see  the 
way  the  Reverend  What-d'you-call-him  jumped 
on  him  this  mornin'  in  the  papers?  No?  You 
didn't.  Well,  it  was  about  that  hundred  and 


264          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

fifty  thousand  he's  tryin'  to  give  to  help  found  a 
seminary  for  makin'  missionaries.  The  preacher 
ordered  his  church  not  to  cast  even  one  longin' 
look  at  the  coin.  He  said  it  was  devil's  money, 
and  said  it  was  diseased  with  dishonesty,  and 
mentioned  several  deals  that  Chambers  had  got 
people  into,  and  left  'em  on  the  sandy  beach  with 
nothin*  but  the  skin  God'd  give  'em.  Oh,  he 
gave  Chambers  what  was  comin'  to  him!  Me,  I 
ain't  never  seen  a  diseased  dollar  that  when  it 
come  to  buyin',  wasn't  about  as  able  to  be  up  and 
doin'  as  any  other  dollar — but,  all  the  same,  I  say 
hurrah  for  the  preacher." 

The  dozen  or  more  times  David  had  been  with 
Mr.  Chambers  he  had  met  him  socially,  and  he 
remembered  him  as  a  man  of  broad  reading  and 
interest,  and  of  unfailing  courtesy.  David  could 
not  adjust  his  picture  of  the  man  to  the  charac- 
terisations he  sometimes  saw  in  the  papers  and 
magazines,  and  to  the  occasional  vituperative 
outbursts  of  which  that  morning's  was  a  fair  ex- 
ample. So  he  now  said  with  considerable  heat: 

"I  certainly  do  not  believe  in  the  centralisation 
of  such  vast  wealth  in  one  man's  purse,  but,  the 
rules  of  the  game  being  as  they  are,  I  can't  say 
that  I  have  much  sympathy  with  those  persons 
who  call  a  man  a  thief  merely  because  he  has  the 
genius  to  accumulate  it!" 

"And  neither  do  I,  friend,"  said  the  Mayor 
soothingly.  "If  there's  any  gent  I  don't  press 
agin  my  bosom,  it's  a  sorehead.  But  I  know 
about  Chambers! — you  set  that  down!"  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  then  asked  meditatively: 
"I  suppose  Miss  Chambers  don't  believe  any  o* 
them  stories?" 


A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED  265 

"She  believes  the  stories  spring  either  from 
jealousy,  or  vindictiveness,  or  from  a  totally  mis- 
taken impression  of  her  father." 

"I  thought  she  must  look  at  him  about  that 
way."  The  Mayor  nodded  thoughtfully. 
"D'you  know,  I've  thought  more'n  once  about 
her  and  her  father.  She's  about  as  fine  as 
they're  turned  out — that's  the  way  I  size  her  up. 
Conscience  to  burn.  Mebbe  some  o'  these  days 
she'll  find  out  just  what  her  old  man's  really  like. 
Well,  when  she  finds  out,  what's  she  goin*  to  do? 
That's  what  I've  wondered  at.  Somethin'  may 
happen — but  I  don't  know.  Blood's  mighty 
thick,  and  when  it's  thickened  with  money — well, 
sir,  it  certainly  does  hold  people  mighty  close  to- 
gether!" 

David  quickly  shifted  the  conversation  back  to 
business.  They  were  all  agreed  that  success 
seemed  a  certainty. 

Rogers  turned  his  large  bright  eyes  from  one 
to  the  other.  "There's  only  one  danger  of  fail- 
ure I  can  see." 

"And  that?"  said  David. 

"If  they  find  out  I'm  Red  Thorpe." 

"How'll  they  learn  you're  Red  Thorpe?" 
The  Mayor  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  wave  of 
a  great  hand.  "No  danger  at  all." 

"I  suppose  not.  But  I've  been  fearing  this 
for  ten  years,  and  now  that  my  work  is  coming 
to  its  climax  I  can't  help  fearing  it  more  than 
ever." 

"Two  more  weeks  and  you'll  be  on  your  way 
to  Colorado,"  the  Mayor  assured  him.  "By-the- 
bye,  have  you  had  an  answer  yet  from  that  san- 
itarium at  Colorado  Springs?" 


266  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Yes.  This  morning.  I  want  to  show  it  to 
you ;  it's  in  the  other  room." 

Rogers  walked  over  the  strip  of  carpet 
through  the  open  door  into  the  living  room.  The 
next  instant  David  and  the  Mayor  heard  his 
strained  voice  demand: 

"What're  you  doing  here?" 

They  both  hurried  to  the  door.  On  Rogers's 
couch  lay  Jimmie  Morgan.  The  half -swept 
floor,  the  broom  leaning  against  a  chair,  and  the 
breath  of  the  bottle,  combined  to  tell  the  story  of 
Morgan's  presence. 

"What're  you  doing  here?"  Rogers  demanded, 
his  thin  fingers  clutching  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

Morgan  rose  blinking  to  his  elbows,  then 
slipped  to  his  feet. 

"Sweepin',"  he  said  with  a  grin. 

"Why  weren't  you  doing  it  then?" 

"I  must  'a'  had  failure  o'  the  heart  and  just 
keeled  over,"  explained  Morgan,  still  grinning 
amiably. 

The  Mayor  sniffed  the  air.  "Yes,  smells  ex- 
actly like  heart  failure." 

"Yes,  it  was  my  heart,"  said  old  Jimmie,  more 
firmly,  and  he  began  to  sweep  with  unsteady  en- 
ergy. 

Rogers,  rigidly  erect,  watched  him  in  fearing 
suspicion  for  a  space,  then  said,  "Finish  a  little 
later,"  and  led  him  through  the  other  door  of 
the  room  into  the  hall.  When  the  door  had 
closed  Rogers  leaned  weakly  against  it. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  David. 

"D'you  think  he  heard  what  we  said  about  Red 
Thorpe?" 

"Him!"  said  the  Mayor.     "Didn't  you  bump 


A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED  267 

your  nose  agin  his  breath?  Hear? — nothin'! 
He  was  dead  to  the  world !" 

"He  didn't  hear  me  come  up,"  returned  Rog- 
ers with  tense  quiet.  "When  I  saw  him  first  his 
eyes  were  open." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  David. 

"Wide  open.     He  snapped  them  shut  when  he 


saw  me." 


They  looked  at  each  other  in  apprehension, 
which  the  Mayor  was  first  to  throw  off.  "He 
probably  didn't  hear  nothin'.  And  if  he  did,  I 
bet  he  didn't  understand.  And  if  he  did  under- 
stand, what's  he  likely  to  do?  Nothin'.  You've 
been  a  friend  to  him  and  his  girl,  and  he  ain't 
goin'  to  do  you  no  dirt.  Anyhow,  in  a  week  or 
two  it'll  all  be  over  and  you'll  be  pointed  toward 
Colorado." 

They  heard  Kate  enter  the  office  and  they 
broke  off.  The  Mayor,  remarking  that  he  had 
to  go,  drew  David  out  into  the  hall. 

"He  dreams  o'  troubles — I've  got  'em,"  the 
Mayor  whispered.  "I  asked  her  to  fix  the  wed- 
din'  day  last  night.  She'd  been  leadin'  up  to  it 
so  much  I  couldn't  put  off  askin'  any  longer. 
And  o'  course  I  had  to  ask  it  to  be  soon — oh, 
I've  got  to  play  the  part,  you  know!  Did  she 
put  it  away  off  in  the  comfortable  distance? 
Not  her!  She  said  she  could  get  ready  in  a 
month.  Now  what  d'you  think  o'  that?  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  woman  gettin'  ready  in  a  month ! 
She  said  since  I  seemed  so  anxious  she'd  make  it 
four  weeks  from  yesterday.  Only  twenty-seven 
more  days! 

"And  say,  you  remember  all  them  lies  I  told 
her  about  myself  when  I  was  tryin'  to  scare  her 


268          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

off.  Well,  she's  already  begun  to  throw  my 
past  in  my  face!  Rogers  there,  he  dreams  o' 
troubles — but,  oh  Lord,  wouldn't  I  like  to  trade!'* 

With  a  dolorous  sigh  the  Mayor  departed  and 
David  went  into  the  office.  As  he  sat  down  at 
his  desk  Kate  Morgan  looked  sharp  questions  at 
him — questions  concerning  Lillian  Drew.  She 
did  not  speak  her  questions  that  afternoon,  but 
they  had  planned  a  walk  for  the  evening  and 
they  were  hardly  in  the  street  when  the  questions 
began  to  come.  David  was  instantly  aware  that 
the  Kate  Morgan  beside  him  was  the  Kate  Mor- 
gan of  a  year  ago,  whose  impulses  were  instantly 
actions  and  whose  emotions  were  instantly  words. 

"Who  was  that  woman  this  morning?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Her  name  is  Lillian  Drew." 

He  offered  her  his  arm,  but  she  roughly  re- 
fused it. 

"Who  is  she?" 

"I  know  little  of  her ;  I  have  spoken  to  her  but 
once  before,"  he  answered  evasively. 

But  in  thinking  he  could  parry  her  with  eva- 
sion, he  had  forgotten  her  old  persistent  direct- 
ness. "I  know  better — you  know  a  great  deal 
about  her!  And  she  has  something  to  do  with 
you.  Do  you  suppose  I  didn't  see  that  in  a  sec- 
ond this  morning  ?" 

David  looked  with  dismay  down  on  the  tense 
face  the  light  from  shop-windows  revealed  to 
him.  He  saw  that  she  had  to  be  answered  with 
facts  or  blank  refusals,  and  he  studied  for  a  mo- 
ment how  much  of  the  first  he  could  give  her. 

"Except  for  one  glimpse  of  her  in  the  street 
I  haven't  seen  her  for  five  vears — "  he  was  be- 


A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED  269 

ginning   guardedly,   when   she   broke   in   with, 

"That  was  just  before  you  were  sent  away?" 

"Yes." 

Like  a  flash  came  her  next  question.  "And 
it  was  for  her  you  stole  the  money?  She  got  the 
five  thousand  dollars?" 

He  was  fairly  staggered.  "I  cannot  say,"  he 
returned. 

She  quickly  moved  a  step  ahead,  and  looked 
straight  up  into  his  face.  "A-a-hl"  she 
breathed.  "So  that's  it!" 

"I  tell  you  that,  except  for  a  mere  glimpse 
the  other  day,  I  never  saw  her  but  once  before  in 
my  life;  and  that  before  that  time  I  had  never 
even  heard  the  name ;  and  that,  since  then,  I  had 
never  heard  of  her  or  seen  her  till  to-day." 

Her  gaze  fairly  pierced  to  his  inner  self. 
"You  wouldn't  lie  to  me — I  know  that,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "But  she's  got  some  hold  on  you ;  she 
means  something  in  your  life — don't  she?" 

"I've  told  you  all  I  can  tell  you,"  David  an- 
swered firmly. 

She  exploded.  "I  hate  her!  You  hear  me? 
—I  hate  her  1" 

He  did  not  answer,  and  they  walked  on  to  the 
eastward  in  silence,  through  streets  effervescent 
with  playing  children.  In  Tompkin's  Square 
they  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches  which 
edged  both  sides  of  the  curving  walks  and  which 
were  filled  with  husbands,  wives,  lovers,  German 
and  Jewish  and  Magyar,  who  had  come  out  for 
an  hour  or  two  of  the  soft  October  air.  David 
tried  to  draw  Kate  into  casual  conversation,  but 
she  remained  silent,  and  soon  they  rose  and 
walked  on.  After  several  blocks  the  window  of 


270  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

a  delicatessen  store  showed  him  she  was  more 
composed,  and  he  again  offered  her  his  arm. 
She  now  took  it. 

Presently  they  saw  the  gleam  of  water  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  and  continuing  they  came  out 
upon  a  dock.  It  was  crowded  with  trucks,  and 
against  its  one  side  creakingly  rubbed  a  scow 
loaded  with  ashes  and  against  its  other  a  scow 
ridged  high  with  empty  tin  cans.  Sitting  in  the 
tails  of  some  of  the  trucks  were  parlourless  lov- 
ers— their  courtship  flanked  by  garbage,  presided 
over  by  the  odour  of  stables.  They  did  not 
break  their  embraces  as  David  and  Kate  brushed 
by  them  and  passed  on  to  the  end  of  the  dock. 

Kate  sank  upon  the  heavy  end  timber  and 
gazed  at  the  surging  tide-river  that  swept  along 
under  the  moonlight.  It  came  to  David,  who 
leaned  against  a  snubbing-post  at  her  side,  that 
this  was  the  very  dock  on  which  he  had  stood  on 
New  Year's  eve ;  and  half  his  mind  was  thinking 
of  the  hopelessness  of  that  night  and  of  the  bit- 
ter days  preceding  it,  when  a  whispered  "Da- 
vid" reached  up  to  him. 

He  glanced  down.  The  moon,  which  dropped 
full  into  her  face,  revealed  no  hardness — showed 
appealing  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  rippled  at  its 
corners. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  hate  her — yes."  Her  voice  flamed  slightly 
up  with  its  old  fire,  but  it  immediately  subsided 
into  tremulous  appeal.  "But  I  had  no  right  to 
talk  to  you  like  I  did.  I  can't  brag  about  what 
I've  been,  you  know." 

"There,  let's  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said 
gently. 


A  LOVE  THAT  PERSEVERED  271 

"Yes,  I  must.  I've  been  thinking  about  my- 
self while  we  were  walking  along.  Thinking  of 
your  past  isn't  always  pleasant,  is  it,  when  there's 
so  much  of  it  that  don't  suit  you.  But  I've 
wanted  to  improve,  and  I've  tried.  Do  you  think 
I've  improved,  a  little — David?" 

The  wistful  voice  drew  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"I  wish  I  had  grown  as  much!"  he  breathed. 

She  pressed  his  hand  an  instant  to  her  cheek, 
then  rose  and  peered  up  into  his  face.  "Do  you 
say  that!"  she  said  eagerly.  "If  I've  tried  to 
improve — you  know  why." 

He  looked  quickly  from  her  tremulous  face, 
out  upon  the  million- faceted  river.  He  writhed 
at  the  pain  she  must  be  feeling  now,  or  would 
some  day  feel,  and  was  abased  that  he  was  its 
cause. 

"Oh,  why  did  things  have  to  happen  so!"  he 
exclaimed  in  a  whisper. 

"What  happen?" 

"That  you  should  want — to  please  me." 

She  did  not  speak  at  once,  but  her  hand  locked 
tightly  upon  his  arm  and  he  felt  her  eyes  burn- 
ing into  him.  At  length  she  whispered,  in  a 
voice  taut  with  emotion: 

"Then  you  still  care — for  her?" 

He  nodded. 

She  was  again  silent,  but  the  locked  grip  told 
him  of  her  tensity. 

"But  she's  impossible  to  you.  She  lives  in 
another  world.  You  still  believe  this?" 

"Yes." 

Silence.     "And  I'm  still  next?" 

"Yes." 


272  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"And  do  you  like  me  any  less  than  you  did  at 
first?" 

He  looked  back  upon  her  impulsively,  and 
caught  her  hands. 

"This  is  a  miserable  affair,  Kate!"  he  cried. 
"Can't  we  forget  it — wipe  it  out — and  be  just 
friends?" 

"Do  you  like  me  any  less  than  you  did  at  first?" 
she  repeated. 

"More!" 

Her  next  words  tumbled  out  breathlessly. 
"I'll  keep  on  improving — you'll  like  me  more  and 
more — and  then — I" 

Her  impetuous  force  fairly  dazed  him. 

"Ah,  David!"  she  whispered  almost  fiercely, 
gripping  his  hands,  "you  can't  guess  how  I  love 
you!" 

He  could  not  bear  her  passionate  eyes,  they 
pained  him  so — and  he  looked  back  across  the 
river  to  where  a  blast  furnace  was  thrusting  its 
red  fangs  upward  into  the  night.  There  was  a 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  monotonous  chatter 
of  the  ripples  among  the  piles  below.  Then  she 
went  on,  still  tense,  but  quieter,  and  slightly 
meditative. 

"Nor  how  differently  I  love  you.  Sometimes 
there  is  a  tiger  in  me,  and  I  could  kill  anyone 
that  stood  between  us.  And  then  again  I'm  not 
the  same  person;  I  want  first  of  all  what  is  the 
best  thing  for  you.  When  I  feel  this  way  I 
would  do  almost  anything  for  you,  David.  I 
think" — her  voice  dwindled  to  the  barest  whis- 
per— "I  think  I  could  almost  give  you  up." 


CHAPTER  XII 

MR.  CHAMBERS  TAKES  A  HAND 

MR.  ALEXANDER  CHAMBERS  sat  in  the  center 
of  his  airy  private  office,  panelled  to  the 
ceiling  in  Flemish  oak,  looking  through  the  se- 
lections from  the  Monday  morning's  mail  his 
secretary  had  just  laid  upon  his  great  glass- 
topped  desk.  His  lofty  forehead,  crowned  with 
soft,  white  hair,  made  one  think  of  the  splendid 
dome  of  Walter  Scott.  But  below  the  forehead, 
in  the  face  that  was  beginning  to  be  netted  with 
fine  wrinkles,  there  was  neither  poetry  nor  ro- 
manticism: power,  that  was  all — power  under 
perfect  mastery.  The  gray  eyes  were  quiet, 
steady;  the  mouth,  half  hid  under  a  thick,  short- 
cropped,  iron-gray  moustache,  was  a  firm 
straight  line;  the  jaw  was  a  great  triangle  with 
the  squared  apex  as  a  chin.  Facetious  persons 
sometimes  referred  to  that  triangular  chin  as 
"Chambers's  cowcatcher;"  but  many  there  were 
who  said  that  those  that  got  in  Chambers's  way 
were  never  thrown  aside  to  safety,  but  went  down 
beneath  the  wheels. 

As  he  skimmed  the  letters  through  with  a  ra- 
pidity that  in  him  seemed  ease,  there  was  nothing 
about  him  to  suggest  the  "human  dynamo," 
which  has  come  to  be  the  popular  conception  of 
the  man  of  vast  business  achievement — no  violent 
outward  show  of  effort,  no  whirring  of  wheels, 

273 


274  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

no  coruscating  flashes  of  escaping  electricity. 
He  ran  noiselessly,  effortlessly,  reposefully. 
Those  who  knew  him  intimately  could  no  more 
have  imagined  Alexander  Chambers  in  a  strain 
than  Providence. 

He  glanced  the  last  letter  through — a  report 
from  Mr.  Jordon  on  the  negotiations  for  the  land 
controlled  by  Rogers — pushed  the  heap  aside  and 
touched  a  button.  Immediately  there  entered  a 
young  man  of  twenty-eight  or  thirty. 

"Please  have  Mr.  Jordon  come  over  as  soon  as 
he  can,"  Mr.  Chambers  said  in  a  quiet  voice  to  his 
secretary. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  just  coming  to  tell  you,  when 
you  rang,  that  Mr.  Allen  is  waiting  to  see  you." 

"Have  him  come  in." 

As  Allen  entered  Mr.  Chambers  raised  his 
strong,  erect  figure  to  his  feet  and  held  out  his 
hand  with  a  smile.  "How  are  you,  Allen.  You 
look  as  fresh  as  a  spring  morning." 

"Then  I  look  as  I  feel.  I'm  just  back  from 
Myrtle  Hill.  It  was  a  glorious  two  days — 
though  we  missed  you  a  lot." 

"Come  now,  some  of  the  party  may  have 
missed  me — but  you,  did  you  think  of  me  once?" 
Those  who  knew  Mr.  Chambers  in  a  business  way 
alone,  would  have  felt  surprise  at  the  humorous 
wrinkles  that  radiated  from  the  outer  corners  of 
his  eyes.  "The  next  time  I  arrange  for  a  week- 
end party  I'll  see  that  the  wires  to  Boston  are 
cut.  But  how  did  you  leave  Helen?" 

They  sat  down.  "With  nothing  to  be  desired 
in  point  of  health" — Allen  hesitated  a  moment — 
"and  everything  to  be  desired  in  point  of  her  re- 
gard for  me." 

Mr.  Chambers    considered    Allen's    strongly 


CHAMBERS  TAKES  A  HAND      275 

masculine  face.  "You'll  win  her  in  the  end,  as 
you've  won  everything  else — by  fighting  right 
on.  There's  no  one  that  ranks  higher  with  her 
than  you." 

"She's  told  me  if  an  edict  were  passed  com- 
pelling her  to  marry  tomorrow,  I'd  be  the  man. 
But — she's  not  eager  for  the  edict." 

"You've  won  her  head,  at  least.  That's  prog- 
ress." 

"Not  even  all  her  head.  She  disapproves  of 
my  ideas.  She  made  that  clear  to  me  again  yes- 
terday. I  tell  you,  I  do  wish  her  concern  in  St. 
Christopher's  and  such  things  could  be — well,  at 
least  lessened  quite  a  bit." 

"That's  hardly  possible — her  concern  is  too 
deeply  rooted."  Mr.  Chambers  shook  his  head 
reminiscently.  "She  has  it  from  her  mother." 

"Yes,  but  the  strength  with  which  she  holds 
to  it — that  she  has  from  you.  I  suppose  there 
is  little  chance  of  uprooting  her  convictions.  But 
— I  feel  I've  gained  one  concession." 

"Yes?" 

"She's  promised  at  the  end  of  five  weeks  to 
give  me  her  yes  or  no." 

Mr.  Chambers  leaned  forward  and  grasped 
Allen's  hand.  "You  know  which  answer  I  want. 
And  I'm  sure  it  will  be  that." 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  a  moment, 
then  settled  back  into  their  chairs. 

"Now  about  that  merger,"  said  Allen. 
"That's  what  brought  me  in."  And  Allen,  who 
handled  the  legal  side  of  many  of  Mr.  Cham- 
bers's  affairs,  began  to  discuss  certain  legal  de- 
tails of  a  railroad  consolidation  Mr.  Chambers 
had  under  consideration. 

The  instant  Allen  was  out  of  the  office,  the 


276  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

secretary  announced  Mr.  Jordon  and  at  Mr. 
Chambers's  order  ushered  him  in.  Mr.  Jordon, 
a  man  whom  prosperity  had  flushed  and  bulked, 
wished  Mr.  Chambers  good  morning  with  that 
little  tone  of  deference  which  a  successful  busi- 
ness man  uses  to  a  more  successful  business  man, 
and  seated  himself  in  the  leather-covered  chair 
Allen  had  just  vacated. 

Mr.  Chambers  picked  up  Mr.  Jordon's  letter 
from  the  heap  on  his  desk. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  the  price  this 
Mr.  Rogers  insists  on  for  the  land  he  controls," 
he  said  in  his  even  voice.  "It  is  at  a  far  higher 
rate  than  we  paid  for  the  rest  of  the  land. 
You've  done  all  that's  possible  to  get  him  to 
lower  his  terms?" 

"Everything!"  For  emphasis  Mr.  Jordon 
clapped  two  fat  hands  down  upon  two  fat  knees. 
"But  he's  as  solid  as  a  rock.  If  we  were  deal- 
ing with  the  real  owners  individually,  it  would 
be  different.  They're  anxious  to  sell  and  they're 
all  short  on  nerve.  It's  him  that  holds  them  to- 
gether and  keeps  them  braced  up." 

"I  suppose  you've  tried  to  get  them  to  with- 
draw their  land  from  his  control?" 

"I  tried  that  long  ago.  But  it  wouldn't  work. 
He's  promised  them  a  big  price,  and  he's  made 
them  believe  they'll  get  it." 

"Then  you  think  as  you  say  here" — he  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  letter — "that  we'd  better  pay  him 
what  he  demands  and  close  the  deal?" 

"I  certainly  do.  We've  got  to  have  that  land, 
and  to  get  it  we've  got  to  pay  his  price.  He 
knows  that  and  he  won't  come  down  a  dollar. 
Since  we've  got  to  pay  the  price  in  the  end,  I'm 


CHAMBERS  TAKES  A  HAND     277 

for  paying  it  right  now  and  not  losing  any  more 
time  in  launching  the  company  before  the  pub- 
lic." 

"Your  reasoning  is  sound.  But  you're  aware, 
of  course,  that  the  difference  between  his  price 
and  the  rate  we've  been  paying  is  considerably 
over  fifty  thousand?" 

"Yes,  but  we're  not  going  to  lose  money  on  it 
even  at  that."  Mr.  Jordon  nodded  knowingly. 
"Besides,  when  we  come  to  counting  up  the  pro- 
fits on  the  whole  deal,  we'll  never  miss  that  fifty 
thousand." 

"Fifty  thousand  dollars,  Mr.  Jordon,"  Mr. 
Chambers  said  quietly,  "is  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

Mr.  Jordon  blushed  as  though  caught  in  an 
ill  deed.  "Yes — yes — of  course,"  he  stammered. 
"We  don't  want  to  lose  it,  but  how  are  we  going 
to  help  it?" 

Mr.  Chambers  did  not  answer — gave  no  sign 
of  having  noticed  the  other's  embarrassment. 
"Suppose  we  have  a  meeting  here  to-morrow 
afternoon,  and  try  again  to  get  him  to  lower  his 
price." 

"Very  well — I'll  write  him  to  be  here.  But  I 
warn  you  that  he'll  not  come  down  a  cent." 

"Then  I  suppose  we'll  have  to  settle  on  some 
other  basis."  There  was  a  moment's  pause. 
"By  the  way,  who  is  this  Mr.  Rogers?" 

"Never  heard  of  him  till  I  ran  across  him  in 
this  deal.  Nobody  seems  to  know  much  about 
him.  He's  just  a  little  two-for-a-cent  agent  that 
was  cute  enough  to  see  this  chance  and  grab  it." 

Mr.  Chambers  said  no  more,  and  Mr.  Jordon, 
seeing  that  use  for  himself  was  over,  departed. 


278  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Mr.  Chambers  had  an  instinct  for  loss  that  was 
like  a  composer's  ear  for  false  notes.  In  his 
big  financial  productions  he  detected  a  possible 
loss  instantly ;  it  pained  him  as  a  discord,  and  he 
at  once  set  about  correcting  it.  The  New  Jersey 
Home  Company  was  but  one  of  the  many  co- 
existing schemes  that  had  sprung  from  his  cre- 
ative brain,  and  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  was  a 
beggar's  penny  compared  to  the  sums  that  floated 
through  his  mind.  But  the  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars was  a  loss,  a  flaw,  and  he  could  not  pass  it 
by. 

Mr.  Chambers  had  the  theory,  proved  by  long 
practice,  that  many  men  have  something  hidden 
away  in  their  lives  which  if  discovered  and  prop- 
erly used,  or  some  vulnerable  business  spot  which 
if  struck,  will  so  disable  them  that  they  cannot 
stand  up  against  your  plans.  This  theory,  ap- 
plied, had  turned  for  him  many  a  hopeless  strug- 
gle into  a  quiet,  easy  victory — so  that  it  had 
become  his  practice,  when  dealing  with  a  man 
whose  past  life  and  whose  present  business  rela- 
tions he  did  not  know,  to  acquaint  himself  with 
all  that  could  be  uncovered. 

The  moment  Mr.  Jordon  had  gone  Mr.  Cham- 
bers wrote  a  line,  requesting  full  information 
about  Rogers,  and  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope 
which  he  addressed  to  the  man  who  usually  served 
him  in  such  confidential  matters.  He  touched  a 
button  and  handed  the  note  to  his  secretary. 
"See  that  Mr.  Hawkins  gets  this  at  once,"  he 
said. 

That  afternoon  a  man,  whom  David  afterward 
remembered  as  a  diamond  ring,  a  diamond  shirt- 


CHAMBERS  TAKES  A  HAND     279 

stud  and  a  heavy  gold  watch-chain,  walked  into 
the  office  of  John  Rogers. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Rogers?"  he  asked  of  David,  who 
was  alone  in  the  room. 

"No.  Aldrich  is  my  name.  But  I  represent 
him.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"I'd  like  to  see  him  if  I  can.  I'm  thinking  of 
investing  in  some  real  estate  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, and  I've  been  looking  at  a  couple  of  houses 
that  I  was  told  he  was  agent  for." 

"I'll  call  him — wait  a  minute." 

David  went  into  the  living  room,  and  at  once 
returned.  "Mr.  Rogers  will  be  right  in,"  he  said. 

"Thanks."  The  man  turned  his  pinkish  face 
about  the  room.  "Cosy  little  office  you've  got, 
for  this  part  of  town,"  he  remarked,  with  an  air 
of  speaking  pleasantries  to  kill  time. 

"Yes — we  think  so." 

"How  long's  Mr.  Rogers  been  interested  in 
real  estate  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

"I've  been  with  him  for  less  than  a  year,  so  I 
don't  exactly  know.  But  I  believe  about  eight 
or  nine  years." 

"In  the  same  business  before  then?" 

But  the  entrance  of  Rogers  at  that  instant 
saved  David  a  reply.  The  caller,  who  had  sat 
down,  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Rogers?  Harris  is  my  name — 
William  Harris." 

Rogers,  as  he  came  up,  laid  hold  of  the  back 
of  a  chair.  He  did  not  see  Mr.  Harris's  hand. 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  returned  in  his  low 
voice.  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

The  three  took  chairs,  and  the  next  hour  was 
filled  with  talk  about  the  houses  Mr.  Harris  had 


280  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

examined.  Mr.  Harris  was  very  eager  for  the 
buildings,  and  David  became  excited  at  the  pros- 
pect of  the  agent's  commission  that  would  come 
from  the  sale.  But  Rogers  was  quiet  and  re- 
served as  always — answering  all  questions  fully, 
save  a  few  casual  personal  queries  which  he 
evaded.  When  Mr.  Harris  went  away  he  said 
in  so  many  words  that  the  deal  was  as  good  as 
settled,  except  for  a  small  difference  in  the  price 
which  would  bother  them  little. 

The  instant  the  office  door  closed  upon  Mr. 
Harris  David  turned  eagerly  to  Rogers,  who 
was  sitting  motionless  in  his  chair. 

"Won't  that  be  a  windfall  though  if  he  takes 
those  houses!"  he  cried.  "Your  commission  will 
be  at  least  two  thousand  dollars!" 

There  was  no  tinge  of  enthusiasm  in  Rogers's 
pale  cheeks.  He  did  not  speak  at  once,  and 
when  he  did  he  ignored  David's  exclamations. 

"Did  you  notice,  Aldrich,"  he  said  in  a  strained 
voice,  "that  I  avoided  taking  his  hand  when  he 
offered  it  at  first  and  again  when  we  parted?" 

"No.     Why?" 

"I  was  afraid." 

"Afraid?"  repeated  David,  puzzled.  "What 
of?" 

"I  shook  hands  with  Bill  Halpin — and  you 
know  what  he  found  out." 

David  stepped  nearer  to  Rogers,  and  saw  in 
his  eyes  the  look  of  hunted  fear. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Mr.  Harris  may  be  a  bona-fide  dealer  in  rea. 
estate — but  fifteen  years  ago  he  was  one  of  the 
cleverest  detectives  on  the  New  York  police 


CHAMBERS  TAKES  A  HAND      281 

force.  I  recognised  him  the  instant  I  saw  him. 
He  helped  arrest  me  once." 

David  sank  slowly  to  a  chair.  "You  don't  say 
so!"  he  ejaculated.  He  stared  for  several  mo- 
ments at  Rogers's  thin  face,  on  which  he  could 
now  see  the  exhaustion  of  the  straining  interview. 
"Do  you  think  he  can  possibly  be  on  your  trail? 
— and  if  so,  what  for?" 

"What  for,  I  don't  know.  But  didn't  you 
notice  how  he  was  constantly  studying  me? — 
how  he  slipped  in  a  question  about  what  I  used 
to  do? — how  he  tried  to  learn  the  names  of  some 
of  my  friends,  whom  he  might  quiz  about  me? 
He's  clever." 

"But  do  you  think  he  found  out  anything?" 

"I  don't  think  he  did.  I  was  watching  him 
closer  than  he  was  watching  me,  for  any  least 
sign  of  recognition.  I  didn't  see  any.  But  you 
know  I  can't  help  fearing,  Aldrich!  I  can't  help 
fearing !" 

David  tried  to  drive  the  strained,  hunted  look 
from  Rogers's  face  by  saying  that  there  was 
hardly  any  possibility  of  his  identity  being  dis- 
covered, and  no  apparent  motive  for  it  being 
used  against  him  even  if  found  out.  David  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  back  his  own  confidence,  and 
at  length  drew  from  Rogers  the  admission, 
"Well,  maybe  you're  right." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL 

next  morning  when  David  glanced  at 
the  envelopes  the  postman  had  handed  him 
he  saw  that  one  letter  was  from  Mr.  Jordon. 
He  was  ripping  it  open  eagerly  when  he  noticed 
the  envelope  beneath  it  bore  the  handwriting  of 
Helen  Chambers.  He  dropped  Jordon's  letter 
and  excitedly  opened  the  other.  Its  cordiality 
set  him  afire.  She  was  just  back  in  town  for 
the  winter,  she  wrote,  and  the  following  after- 
noon she  would  be  at  St.  Christopher's.  Would 
he  care  to  come  to  meet  her  at  about  four  for  an 
hour's  walk? 

Would  he!  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the 
early  summer — and  how  he  had  hungered  to  see 
her,  speak  with  her,  feel  her  near  presence  1  He 
walked  across  the  office,  in  which  he  was  alone, 
half  a  dozen  times  before  he  took  up  the  letter 
of  Mr.  Jordon.  Mr.  Jordon  asked  that  Mr. 
Rogers  and  his  associates  be  at  the  office  of  Mr. 
Chambers  at  three  o'clock  that  afternoon.  He 
hoped  that  they  would  be  able  to  reach  an  agree- 
ment on  terms  and  close  the  matter  up. 

David,  the  letter  in  his  hand,  was  rushing  into 
the  living  room  to  read  the  news  to  Rogers,  when 
he  saw,  through  the  open  hall-door,  the  ample 
form  of  the  Mayor  passing  out.  He  captured 

282 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL      283 

the  Mayor  and  led  him  in  to  the  side  of  the  couch' 
on  which  Rogers  was  lying. 

"Listen  to  this,  will  you!"  David  cried,  and 
excitedly  read  the  letter.  "Did  you  take  in  that 
sentence  at  the  last? — 'I  hope  that  we  will  at 
length  be  able  to  agree  on  terms.'  Now  what  do 
you  think  that  means?" 

"It  means,"  said  the  Mayor,  explosively,  "that 
they've  woke  up  and  see  that  you  ain't  never 
goin'  to  come  down  to  them,  they've  got  to  come 
up  to  you !  It  means  that  you've  won !" 

Rogers 's  sunken  eyes  flamed,  and  he  stood  up. 
"It  seems  so!"  he  breathed. 

They  all  seized  hands.  "This  don't  mean 
much  to  me  personally,  for  I've  only  got  a  little 
in  it,"  said  the  Mayor,  "but  I  certainly  have  the 
glad  feeling  on  your  account,  Rogers.  You  can 
clear  right  out  to  a  land  where  the  air  was  made 
for  breathin'  purposes.  Here  in  New  York  the 
air  ain't  good  for  much  except  fillin'  in  lots. 
Yes  sir,  Rogers,  I'm  certainly  glad!" 

They  talked  on  excitedly,  as  men  do  who  are 
but  a  step  from  success.  David  was  glad,  too, 
on  Rogers's  account,  for  he  saw  afresh  how 
thinly  disease  had  sculptured  his  cheeks  and  nose, 
and  how  deeply  it  had  chiselled  about  the  eye- 
balls, and  to  what  a  slender  shaft  it  had  carved 
the  neck.  Also  he  was  ablaze  with  gladness  on 
his  own  account.  Success,  but  a  few  hours  off, 
meant  the  partial  clearing  of  his  name.  His 
mind  exulted  over  the  details  of  the  scene  to-mor- 
row afternoon  when  he  would  tell  Helen  Cham- 
bers he  had  the  means  to  pay  his  debt  to  St. 
Christopher's. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Mr.   Harris 


284  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

dropped  in.  He  asked  for  Rogers,  but  David 
said  that  Rogers  was  out.  For  half  an  hour  the 
detective  talked  about  the  houses  in  which  he  was 
interested,  now  and  then  slipping  in  a  guileless 
question  about  Rogers.  But  David  was  on  his 
guard;  he  matched  his  wits  against  Mr.  Har- 
ris's, and  when  at  length  the  detective  went  away 
David  was  certain  he  was  no  wiser  than  when  he 
came. 

At  half  past  two  the  Mayor  thrust  his  head 
into  the  office  and,  seeing  Kate  was  there,  beck- 
oned David  into  the  hall.  The  Mayor  had  never 
before  been  at  elbows  with  a  real  money  king, 
so  for  him  the  meeting  was  a  new  experience ;  and 
despite  his  ire  toward  Mr.  Chambers  he  was 
prompted  to  make  his  appearance  before  royalty 
in  fitting  court  costume. 

"D'you  think  I  look  all  right?"  he  asked,  anx- 
iously. 

David  surveyed  the  Mayor's  bulky  figure. 
There  was  a  silk  hat  with  not  a  single  hair  in 
disarray,  a  long  light  overcoat,  a  pair  of  fresh 
gloves  that  were  staringly  tan,  and  the  most 
gorgeous  vest  in  the  Mayor's  closet.  David 
could  have  wished  that  the  whole  scheme  of  dress 
had  been  pitched  in  a  lower  key,  but  he  criticised 
nothing  but  the  vest. 

"If  that's  all  you  kick  about,  then  I'm  O.  K," 
the  Mayor  said  complacently,  smoothing  a  yellow 
glove  over  the  silken  pinks.  "You've  give  me 
some  good  points,  but  when  it  comes  to  vests, 
friend — well,  you  ain't  got  no  real  taste  for 
vests." 

He   walked    to    the    door    and    looked    out. 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       285 

"There  comes  our  carriage,"  he  called.  "Get 
Rogers  and  we'll  be  movin'." 

"Carriage!"  cried  David. 

"Sure.  D'you  think  we're  goin'  to  let  Cham- 
bers and  his  bunch  think  we're  a  lot  o'  cheap- 
skates? Not  much.  We're  goin'  to  do  this 
thing  proper." 

"But  Mr.  Chambers  himself  uses  the  street 
cars." 

"Well,  he  can  afford  to,"  the  Mayor  returned 
with  equanimity.  "We  can't." 

When  David  walked  with  Rogers  to  the  car- 
riage he  would  not  have  been  surprised  had  the 
Mayor  handed  them  for  their  lapels  a  bunch  of 
roses  knotted  with  ribbon.  They  settled  back 
against  the  cushions  and  suspense  silenced  them 
— and  with  hardly  a  word  they  rumbled  over  to 
Broadway,  down  into  Wall  Street  and  up  before 
Mr.  Chambers's  office. 

As  they  stepped  from  the  carriage,  Rogers's 
thin  fingers  gripped  David's  hand  like  taut  cords. 
Clasp,  face,  and  the  feverish  fire  in  his  eyes  told 
David  how  great  was  the  strain  Rogers  bore. 
This  was  the  climax  of  his  life. 

David  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand. 
"It'll  be  all  right,"  he  whispered  reassuringly. 

They  went  up  the  broad  steps  into  a  tiled  hall- 
way, and  turned  to  their  right  to  the  entrance 
of  the  private  banking  house  of  Alexander 
Chambers  &  Co.  An  erect,  liveried  negro,  whose 
stiffly  formal  manners  suggested  a  spring  within 
him,  admitted  them  into  a  great  light  room,  in 
which,  behind  a  partition  of  glass  and  bronze 
grating  that  half  reached  the  ceiling,  sat  scores 


286  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

of  men  working  swiftly  without  appearance  of 
speed.  A  word  and  a  lifted  finger  from  the 
black  automaton  directed  them  to  the  far  end 
of  the  room.  Here  a  man  with  the  bearing  of  a 
statesman,  Mr.  Chambers's  doorkeeper,  bowed 
them  into  three  leather-seated  chairs,  and  carried 
their  names  into  Mr.  Chambers's  private  secre- 
tary. 

They  did  not  speak ;  the  nearness  of  the  climax 
awed  even  the  Mayor.  And  to  add  to  the  sus- 
pense throbbing  within  him,  David  began  to 
wonder  how  he  would  be  greeted  by  Mr.  Cham- 
bers, whom  he  had  not  seen  since  his  ante-prison 
days. 

Almost  at  once  the  doorkeeper  reappeared, 
and  with  the  subdued  air  that  characterised  the 
place,  led  them  into  a  large  office.  The  keen- 
faced  secretary  rose  from  a  desk,  ushered  them 
through  a  door  and  into  another  office.  At  the 
great  desk  in  the  center  of  the  room  were  Mr. 
Chambers  and  Mr.  Jordon. 

The  two  men  rose,  and  David's  wonder  as  to 
how  Mr.  Chambers  would  receive  him  was  at  once 
relieved.  An  inclination  of  the  head  and  a  quiet, 
"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Aldrich" — that  was  all; 
nothing  in  his  impassive  face  and  manner  to  sug- 
gest that  he  remembered  the  prison-gap  in 
David's  life. 

The  Mayor  had  announced  during  the  carriage 
drive  that  if  "Chambers  holds  out  his  hand  to 
me  to  be  shook,  I  won't  see  nothin'  but  the 
ceilin'."  But  there  was  no  opportunity  thus  to 
humiliate  Mr.  Chambers,  for  his  response  to  the 
introduction  was  but  a  brief  nod.  So  the  Mayor 
could  only  declare  his  independence  by  opening 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       287 

the  front  of  his  overcoat,  like  a  pair  of  doors, 
upon  his  brilliant  waistcoat,  and  by  gazing  into 
Mr.  Chambers's  face  with  aggressive  hauteur. 

Mr.  Jordon  shook  hands  all  around.  "Well, 
I  hope  we'll  settle  things  up  to-day,"  he  said. 
As  to  how  things  were  going  to  be  settled,  he  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt.  He  was  certain  the 
afternoon  would  force  Mr.  Chambers  to  his  way 
of  thinking.  A  few  minutes  before  Mr.  Cham- 
bers had  asked  his  opinion  as  to  the  result  of  the 
conference,  and  he  had  said,  "They'll  not  give 
in ;  we've  got  to  pay  what  they  ask."  Mr.  Cham- 
bers had  said  nothing — which  had  not  surprised 
him,  for  he  knew  it  was  instinctive  with  Mr. 
Chambers,  even  in  such  small  matters  as  this,  to 
let  the  completed  act  announce  his  purpose. 

They  all  sat  down,  David,  Rogers,  and  the 
Mayor  in  three  leather-bottomed  chairs  which 
stood  in  front  and  to  the  right  of  Mr.  Chambers's 
desk.  To  the  left,  in  a  row,  were  half  a  dozen 
other  chairs.  Mr.  Chambers  leaned  slightly  for- 
ward and  folded  his  hands  on  his  desk's  plate- 
glass  top. 

"Let  us  go  straight  to  the  point  of  this  mat- 
ter," he  began,  addressing  Rogers,  who  sat  be- 
tween David  and  the  Mayor.  "Mr.  Jordon  tells 
me  you  refuse  to  consider  any  sum  less  than  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  land 
you  control.  Is  that  correct?" 

"It  is." 

David's  shoulder  against  Rogers  told  him  that 
Rogers's  lean  frame  was  as  rigid  as  the  chair 
that  held  it. 

"This  then  is  your  ultimatum?" 

"It  is." 


288 

"Just  as  I  told  you,"  nodded  Mr.  Jordon,  who 
was  at  Mr.  Chambers's  elbow. 

Mr.  Chambers  pressed  a  button  beneath  the 
desk  and  the  door  opened  before  his  secretary. 

"Please  show  in  the  others,"  he  requested 
quietly. 

The  secretary  bowed  and  the  door  closed. 

"The  others?"  breathed  Rogers;  and  he  and 
David  and  the  Mayor  looked  at  each  other. 

"The  others !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Jordon.  "What 
others?" 

Mr.  Chambers  sat  silent,  with  unchanged  face. 
The  next  instant  the  door,  opening,  answered  the 
question.  Into  the  room  hesitantly  filed  the  five 
owners  of  the  land  Rogers  controlled.  Rogers, 
David,  and  the  Mayor,  and  also  Mr.  Jordon,  rose 
in  astonishment.  The  five  stopped  and  stared  at 
Rogers's  party ;  plainly  the  surprise  was  mutual. 

Mr.  Chambers,  remaining  in  his  seat,  motioned 
the  new-comers  to  the  chairs  at  the  left  of  his 
desk.  "Be  seated,  gentlemen." 

"What's  this  mean?"  David  asked,  catching 
Rogers's  arm. 

Rogers  turned  toward  him,  and  for  an  instant 
David  felt  he  was  gazing  into  the  abyss  of  fear. 
Then  the  arm  he  held  tightened  and  Rogers 
looked  toward  his  five  clients  and  nodded. 

"Good  afternoon.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he 
said  in  an  even  tone. 

They  sat  down  again,  and  Rogers's  eyes  fas- 
tened on  the  finely  wrinkled  face  of  Mr.  Cham- 
bers— as  did  every  other  pair  of  eyes  in  the  room. 
They  vainly  strove  to  read  the  purpose  behind 
that  inscrutable  countenance.  The  purpose  was 
simple  enough.  By  bringing  together  the  two 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       289 

elements  of  Rogers's  crowd,  each  ignorant  that 
the  other  was  to  be  present,  unprepared  with 
common  replies,  he  had  thought  he  might  possi- 
bly play  them  against  each  other  in  a  way  to 
bring  them  to  his  price;  and  if  not,  he  would  at 
least  have  them  all  together,  and  so  be  able  to 
make  an  immediate  settlement  upon  their  terms. 
He  had  had  a  faint  hope  that  Mr.  Hawkins 
might  discover  something  significant,  but  a  note 
from  the  detective  during  the  morning  had  con- 
tained no  single  new  fact. 

Mr.  Chambers  did  not  give  the  surprised  group 
time  to  readjust  itself.  "I  have  called  together 
all  parties  interested  in  this  transaction  in  order 
that  we  may  more  effectively  reach  an  agreement, 
and  in  the  hope  that  we  may  obviate  the  neces- 
sity for  future  meetings." 

He  fastened  his  gray  eyes  upon  the  five  own- 
ers, who  were  looking  very  much  at  a  loss,  and 
spoke  coldly,  calmly,  as  though  his  decision  were 
unchangeable  and  his  words  immutable  facts. 
"First  I  desire  to  say  that  you  gentlemen  and 
your  agent  have  a  very  inflated  idea  of  the  value 
of  your  property.  The  price  is  one  we  cannot, 
and  will  not,  pay.  If  you  want  to  take  what  we 
offer,  very  well.  If  not,  I  assure  you  that  we 
shall  run  no  streets,  water-mains,  sewers  or  gas 
pipes  near  your  tract.  We  shall  leave  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  your  property  entirely  unimproved. 
You  will  recall  that  our  land  lies  between  yours 
and  the  car  line;  we  shall  forbid  anybody  living 
on  your  land  crossing  our  land.  Nobody  else  is 
going  to  buy  your  land  under  these  conditions. 
You  can  sell  it  only  to  us." 

The  owners,   struck   while   off   guard,   were 


290 

dazed;  and  David,  Rogers,  and  the  Mayor,  who 
had  expected  the  exact  opposite  of  this  talk,  were 
completely  taken  back. 

The  cold,  dominant  voice  went  on.  "Such  be- 
ing the  situation,  does  it  not  seem  better  to  accept 
our  price,  which  is  a  fair  price,  than  to  have  your 
land  made  unsaleable,  to  have  your  investment 
tied  up  for  years  to  come?" 

He  centered  his  personality  upon  the  weakest 
of  the  five.  "I'm  sure  you  think  so,  do  you  not?" 

The  man  blinked — then  nodded  his  head. 

"But — "  began  Rogers. 

"And  you,  I'm  sure  you  think  so,"  Mr.  Cham- 
bers demanded  of  another  owner. 

"Ye-e-s,"  said  the  man. 

This  was  child's  play  to  Mr.  Chambers,  who 
had  browbeaten  and  overpowered  even  the  direct- 
ors of  great  corporations.  He  tried  to  rush  his 
plan  through,  before  the  men  could  recover. 

"It  is  plain  you  are  all  agreed.  You  see  how 
your  clients  stand,  Mr.  Rogers.  It  certainly 
seems  the  only  course  to  settle  this  matter  at  once 
upon  the  basis  of  our  off er,  which  seems  to  them 
fair  and  just." 

Rogers  saw  that  awe  of  the  great  financier  and 
his  intimidating  statments  had  fairly  stampeded 
his  clients.  Fighting  down  the  momentary  sense 
of  defeat,  and  not  heeding  Mr.  Chambers's  words 
to  him,  he  fixed  his  great  burning  eyes  on  the  five 
men. 

"Gentlemen!"  he  said  desperately.  They 
shifted  their  gaze  from  Mr.  Chambers  to  him. 
"Gentlemen,  I  want  to  assure  you  that  if  we  hold 
out  we  will  get  our  own  price.  I  happen  to  know 
they've  just  bought  a  piece  of  ground  beyond 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       291 

ours;  without  ours  it  will  be  worthless  to  them. 
They've  got  to  have  our  land !  You  understand? 
Simply  got  to  have  it  1" 

The  Mayor  lifted  an  emphatic  yellow  hand  to- 
ward the  owners.  "Of  course  they  have!  And 
don't  you  listen  to  no  bluffin'." 

Rogers  continued  to  talk  for  several  minutes; 
and  gradually  confidence  and  determination  came 
into  the  manner  of  the  five.  At  the  end  Rogers 
turned  to  Mr.  Chambers. 

"We  shall  stand  out  for  our  price,"  he  said 
firmly. 

Mr.  Chambers  had  wrecked  railroads  in  order 
to  buy  them  in  at  a  lower  rate,  but  the  similar 
procedure  which  he  had  threatened  did  not  seem 
worth  while  here.  He  had  tried  his  plan,  which 
he  had  known  had  only  a  chance  of  success,  and 
it  had  failed.  There  was  but  only  one  thing  to 
do — to  yield. 

He  was  thoughtful  for  several  moments.  "If 
we  should  refuse  your  terms,  we  of  course  in  the 
end  would  buy  your  land  at  our  own  price.  But 
it  occurs  to  me  that  the  bother  and  extra  cost  of 
improving  the  land  and  opening  it  up  at  a  later 
date,  might  be  as  much  as  the  difference  between 
your  price  and  ours.  What  do  you  think,  Mr. 
Jordon?" 

"There's  much  in  what  you  say,"  returned  the 
general  manager,  guardedly. 

Rogers,  David,  and  the  Mayor  exchanged 
quick,  triumphant  glances.  They  had  won. 

Mr.  Chambers  again  relapsed  into  his  appear- 
ance of  thought  fulness,  and  they  all  sat  waiting 
for  him  to  speak.  David  laid  his  hand  on  Rog- 
ers's  and  pressed  it  exultantly. 


292  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

While  Mr.  Chambers  still  sat  thus,  the  office 
door  opened  and  his  secretary  apologetically  tip- 
toed across  the  room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"I  told  Mr.  Hawkins  you  were  engaged,  but 
he  insisted  that  this  was  important,"  the  secre- 
tary said  to  Mr.  Chambers,  and  withdrew. 

Mr.  Chambers  read  the  note,  thought  a  mo- 
ment, slowly  folded  the  sheet,  then  raised  his 
eyes. 

"Before  going  further,  there  is  one  point — of 
no  importance,  I  dare  say  it  will  prove  to  be — 
that  it  might  be  well  for  us  to  touch  upon."  He 
centered  his  calm  gaze  upon  the  five  owners. 
"Since  you  have  intrusted  Mr.  Rogers  with  the 
management  of  your  property  I  take  it  that  he 
has  your  fullest  confidence?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  one  hesitatingly,  and  the  others 
followed  with  the  same  word. 

"Your  confidence,  of  course,  is  founded  on 
thorough  acquaintance?" 

David  glanced  from  the  impassive  Mr.  Cham- 
bers to  Rogers.  The  mask  of  control  had  fallen 
from  his  face.  He  was  leaning  forward,  his 
whole  being  at  pause,  his  face  a  climax  of  f ear 
and  suspense. 

A  succession  of  slow  "Yes-es"  came  from  the 
owners. 

"Then  of  course,"  Mr.  Chambers  went  on  in 
his  composed  voice,  "you  are  perfectly  aware  that 
Mr.  Rogers  is  a  man  with  a  long  criminal  ca- 
reer." 

A  shiver  ran  through  Rogers;  he  stiffened, 
grew  yet  whiter.  There  was  a  moment  of  blank- 
est silence.  Then  the  Mayor  sprang  up,  his  face 
purpling. 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       293 

"It's  an  infernal  lie!"  he  shouted. 

Consternation  struggled  on  the  faces  of  the 
five;  they  looked  from  the  rigid,  white  figure  of 
Rogers  to  the  calm  face  of  Mr.  Chambers. 

"It  isn't  so,"  declared  one  tremulously. 

"We  will  leave  the  question  to  Mr.  Rogers," 
said  Mr.  Chambers's  unexcitable  voice,  and  he 
pivoted  in  his  chair  so  that  his  steady  eyes  pointed 
upon  Rogers.  "If  Mr.  Rogers  is  not  'Red 
Thorpe,'  the  one  time  notorious  safe-blower,  with 
scores  of  burglaries  and  three  terms  in  the  peni- 
tentiary against  him,  let  him  say  so.  However, 
before  he  denies  it,  I  shall  tell  him  that  I  have  all 
the  police  data  necessary  for  his  identification. 
Now,  Mr.  Rogers." 

Their  gaze  on  Rogers's  face,  all  waited  for 
him  to  speak — Jordon,  astounded,  the  five  pale 
with  the  fear  of  loss,  the  Mayor  glowering, 
David  with  a  sense  that  supreme  ruin  was  crush- 
ing upon  them. 

At  length  Rogers's  lips  moved.  "It  is  true," 
he  whispered. 

"What  if  it  is?"  roared  the  Mayor  at  Mr. 
Chambers.  "There's  nothin'  agin  him  now!" 

"I'm  making  no  charges  against  him,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Chambers.  "This  is  merely  some  in- 
formation it  seemed  his  clients  might  be  inter- 
ested in  having." 

All  eyes  again  turned  upon  Rogers.  He 
came  slowly  to  his  feet,  walked  to  Mr.  Cham- 
bers's desk,  leaned  his  hands  upon  it  and  directed 
his  large  burning  eyes  down  into  Mr.  Chambers's 
face. 

"I  have  done  many  bad  things,  yes,"  he  said  in 
a  voice,  low,  flame-hot,  "but  nothing  as  bad  as 


294  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

you  have  just  done.  You  hare  stolen  more  this 
minute  than  I  have  stolen  in  my  lifetime." 

He  held  his  eyes,  blazing  with  accusation,  upon 
Mr.  Chambers's  imperturbable  face  for  several 
moments,  then  looked  about  on  the  five  owners. 
There  was  a  chance,  a  bare  chance,  they  might 
not  turn  against  him. 

"Yes,  I  am  Red  Thorpe,"  he  said  in  a  vibrant 
voice  that  became  more  and  more  appealing  with 
every  word.  "I  knew  it  would  be  found  out — • 
some  day.  There  are  some  things  I  always  told 
myself  I'd  say  to  the  world  when  this  day  came. 
But  to  you  I  want  to  say  only  this:  For  ten 
years  I've  been  honesty  itself.  I've  been  honest 
with  you — you  know  it.  If  you  stand  by  me, 
I'll  do  everything  I've  promised." 

He  stood  rigid,  awaiting  their  verdict.  There 
was  a  strained  silence.  The  five  looked  dazedly 
at  Rogers,  at  one  another,  completely  at  a  loss. 

"If  the  gentlemen  desire  to  entrust  their  af- 
fairs to  a  most  dangerous  criminal,  one  who 
might  defraud  them  of  everything,  that  is  their 
privilege,"  put  in  Mr.  Chambers  quietly. 

Their  bewilderment  was  gone ;  Mr.  Chambers's 
words  had  roused  their  property  instinct.  A 
murmuring  rose  among  them. 

David  and  the  Mayor  sprang  up,  but  Rogers 
raised  a  hand  and  they  remained  beside  their 
chairs.  A  flame  began  to  burn  in  his  white 
cheeks,  in  his  deep  eyes. 

"I  knew  this  day  was  coming,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  that  had  a  wild  bitter  ring  of  challenge. 
"Instead  of  you,  you  weaklings" — he  looked  at 
the  five — "and  you,  you  mere  soulless  Acquisi- 
tion"— his  eyes  blazed  at  Mr.  Chambers — "I 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       295 

wish  I  had  the  world  before  me.  I'd  like  to  tell 
it  what  a  vast  fool  it  is  in  its  treatment  of  such 
as  me — how  eyeless  and  brainless  and  soulless  I 
Oh,  what  a  fool!  .  .  .  But  the  world's  not 
here." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "And  why  am 
I  at  an  end? — why?"  His  answer  rang  through 
the  room  with  a  passionate  resentment,  with  an 
agony  of  loss.  "Because  the  world  did  not  care 
to  step  in  and  point  the  right  way  to  me.  To 
have  saved  me  would  have  been  so  easy!  I  was 
worth  saving!  I  had  brains — there  was  a  man 
in  me.  Whose  fault  is  it  that  I  am  now  at  the 
end? — a  miserable  remnant  of  a  man!  The 
world's.  I  was  robbed  of  my  chance  in  life — 
robbed,  yes  sir,  robbed  I — and  I  could  have  made 
it  a  splendid  life  I  Ah,  how  I've  wanted  to  make 
it  a  splendid  life.  And  the  world — the  world 
that  robbed  me! — that  world  calls  me  criminal. 
And  I  must  pay  the  penalty,  and  the  penalty  is 
— what  you  see!  Oh,  my  God!" 

For  ten  years  Rogers  had  cherished  the  pur- 
pose of  accusing  the  world  on  the  day  of  his  ex- 
posure— but  now  his  loss  was  so  overwhelming, 
speech  to  these  people  was  so  utterly  useless, 
strength  was  so  little,  that  he  could  say  no  more 
— could  only,  leaning  against  the  desk,  gaze  in 
hatred  and  despair  at  Mr.  Chambers  and  the 
owners.  The  faces  of  the  five  were  pale  and 
blank.  There  was  a  trace  of  sympathy  in 
Mr.  Jordon's  face,  and  a  momentary  change 
in  Mr.  Chambers's  that  indicated — who  knows 
what? 

David  sprang  to  Mr.  Chambers's  desk,  his  soul 
on  fire. 


296  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"This,  sir,  is  a  damned  inhuman  outrage!"  he 
flung  down  into  the  older  man's  face. 

"It  might  also  have  been  of  interest  to  Mr. 
Rogers's  clients,"  Mr.  Chambers  returned 
calmly,  "to  have  known  the  record  of  Mr.  Rog- 
ers's associate." 

David's  wrath  had  no  time  to  fashion  a  retort, 
for  the  Mayor,  at  his  side,  hammered  the  desk 
with  a  great  yellow-gloved  fist.  "That's  what  it 
is!"  he  shouted.  "It's  a  low,  dirty,  murdering 
trick!" 

"I  merely  acquainted  his  clients  with  his  re- 
cord— which  they  have  a  right  to  know." 

A  huge  sarcastic  laugh  burst  from  the  Mayor, 
and  he  pushed  his  face  down  into  Mr.  Cham- 
bers's. 

"You/'  he  roared,  "you,  when  you're  in  a  deal, 
you  always  show  your  clients  your  record,  don't 
you!" 

Rogers,  out  of  whose  cheeks  the  fire  had  gone, 
leaving  them  an  ashen  gray,  tugged  at  their 
sleeves. 

"It's  no  use! — let's  go!"  he  begged,  chokingly. 
"Quick!" 

David's  eyes  blazed  down  upon  Mr.  Chambers. 
"Yes,  let's  leave  the  infernal  thief!" 

He  took  one  of  Rogers's  arms,  the  Mayor, 
shaking  a  huge  fist  in  Mr.  Chambers's  face,  took 
the  other,  and  they  made  for  the  door.  Mr. 
Chambers,  still  seated,  watched  Rogers's  thin 
figure,  head  pitched  forward  and  sunken  between 
his  shoulders,  pass  out  of  the  office.  Brushing 
people  out  of  his  way  had  become  the  order  of 
his  life,  and  he  did  it  impersonally,  without 
malice,  as  a  machine  might  have  done  it.  And 


THE  END  OF  THE  DEAL       297 

Rogers  was  one  of  the  most  insignificant  he  nad 
ever  brushed  aside. 

"Mr.  Rogers,  as  of  course  you  are  aware,  has 
not  the  rights  of  a  citizen,"  Mr.  Chambers  said 
to  the  five.  "Consequently  his  agreement  with 
you  is  invalid;  he  can  not  hold  you  to  it.  If  you 
will  kindly  wait  in  the  next  room  a  moment,  Mr. 
Jordon  will  speak  with  you." 

After  they  had  filed  out  he  remarked  to  Jor- 
don: "They  are  stampeded.  They  will  come 
to  your  terms.  I  leave  them  in  your  hands." 

He  touched  the  button  on  his  desk  and  his  sec- 
retary appeared.  "If  Senator  Speed  has  come," 
he  said,  "ask  him  to  step  in." 

When  David  and  Rogers  were  home  again, 
and  the  Mayor  and  his  profanity  had  gone,  there 
was  a  long  silence  during  which  both  sat  motion- 
less. David  searched  his  mind  for  some  word  of 
hope  for  Rogers,  who  was  a  collapsed  bundle  in 
a  Morris  chair,  gazing  through  the  window  into 
the  dusky  air-shaft. 

At  length  he  bent  before  Rogers  and  took  his 
hand.  "We'll  go  to  some  new  place  together, 
and  start  all  over  again,"  he  said. 

Rogers  turned  his  face — the  only  part  of  him 
that  the  deepening  twilight  had  not  blotted  out. 
It  seemed  a  bodyless  face — the  mask  of  hope- 
lessness. 

"It's  no  use — I'm  all  in,"  he  whispered. 
"Even  if  I  had  the  courage  to  make  another 
fight,  there's  no  strength." 

He  was  silent  for  several  moments.  Then  a 
low  moan  broke  from  him.  "Ten  years!"  he 
whispered.  "And  this  is  the  end!" 


BOOK  IV 

THE  SOUL  OF  WOMAN, 

CHAPTER  I 

HELEN    CHAMBERS    GETS    A    NEW    VIEW    OF    HER 
FATHER 

THE  morning  light  that  sunk  down  the  deep 
air-shaft  and  directed  its  dimmed  gaze 
through  the  window,  saw  Rogers  lying  dressed 
on  the  couch  and  David  sitting  with  sunken  head 
at  the  window,  a  sleepless  night  on  both  their 
faces.  There  had  been  little  talk  during  the 
crawling  hours,  save  when  the  Mayor  had 
dropped  in  near  midnight  and  set  walls  and  fur- 
niture trembling  with  his  deep  chest-notes  of 
profanity.  Even  Tom,  awed  by  the  overwhelm- 
ing disaster,  moved  noiselessly  about  and  spoke 
only  a  few  whispered  monosyllables.  The  blow 
was  too  heavy  to  be  talked  of — too  heavy  for 
them  to  think  of  what  should  next  be  done. 

Once,  however,  David,  whose  personal  loss 
was  almost  forgotten  in  his  sympathy  for  Rog- 
ers, had  spoken  of  the  future.  "There  is  no 
future,"  Rogers  had  said.  "In  a  few  days  the 
owners  of  my  buildings  will  hear  about  me. 
They  will  take  the  agency  from  me.  I  have  a 

298 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW   299 

few  hundred  dollars.  That  will  soon  go.  And 
then—?" 

The  dinginess  in  the  light  began  to  settle  like 
the  sediment  of  a  clearing  liquid,  and  the  sense 
that  the  sun  must  be  breakfast-high  worked 
slowly  to  the  seat  of  David's  will.  He  rose, 
quietly  set  a  few  things  in  order,  Rogers's  eyes 
following  him  about,  then  put  on  his  hat  with  the 
purpose  of  going  to  the  Pan- American  for  his 
breakfast  and  to  bring  Rogers's. 

As  he  started  for  the  door  Rogers  reached 
forth  his  hand.  "I'm  glad  you  found  out  about 
me,  Aldrich,"  he  said.  "I  can  never  tell  you  how 
much  you've  meant  to  me  during  the  last  eight 
months,  and  how  much  you  mean  to  me  now." 

David  grasped  the  hand  and  looked  down  into 
the  despairing  eyes.  "I'm  glad,"  he  said,  sim- 
ply. 

After  a  moment  Rogers's  weak  grip  relaxed 
and  he  turned  away  his  face  with  a  sigh.  David 
went  softly  out. 

While  David  was  at  breakfast — his  appetite 
shrunk  from  it — the  Mayor  sat  down  at  his  table, 
which  had  the  privacy  of  an  empty  corner.  "By 
the  way,"  the  Mayor  whispered,  "d'you  have  any 
idea  yet  how  Chambers  found  out?" 

"No  more  than  yesterday.  We  told  you  of 
the  call  of  that  detective.  He  must  have  been 
from  Chambers,  and  he  must  have  made  the  dis- 
covery. But  how,  we  don't  know." 

"Poor  Rogers!"  The  Mayor  shook  his  head 
sadly,  thoughtfully.  His  face  began  slowly  to 
redden  and  his  eyes  to  flash.  He  thrust  out  a 
big  fist.  "Friend,  I  don't  believe  in  fightin' — 


300  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

but  say,  I'd  give  five  years  to  flatten  the  face 
that  belongs  to  Mr.  Chambers !" 

David  had  to  smile  at  the  idea  of  the  Mayor 
and  Mr.  Chambers  engaged  in  fisticuffs.  "It's 
sad,  but  men  like  Mr.  Chambers  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  justice." 

The  Mayor  dropped  his  belligerent  attitude. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Mebbe  they  can't  be  reached 
with  fists,  or  law — but  there's  other  ways.  And 
I'd  like  to  jab  him  any  old  way.  I've  been 
thinkin'  about  that  daughter  o'  his.  Wouldn't 
I  like  to  tell  her  a  few  things  about  her  dad!" 

The  Mayor  swayed  away  in  response  to  a 
summons  from  the  kitchen,  and  a  few  minutes 
later  David  entered  his  room  bearing  in  a  basket 
Rogers's  prescribed  milk  and  soft-boiled  eggs. 
Rogers  drank  down  the  eggs,  which  David  had 
stirred  to  a  yellow  liquid,  and  after  them  the 
milk,  and  then  with  a  gasp  of  relief  sank  back 
upon  the  couch.  As  David  was  clearing  up 
after  the  breakfast  he  heard  some  one — Kate  he 
guessed — enter  the  office,  and  presently  there  was 
a  rap  on  the  door  between  the  two  rooms.  David 
opened  the  door  and  found,  as  he  had  expected, 
Kate  Morgan.  She  wore  her  coat  and  hat,  just 
as  she  had  come  from  the  street.  On  her  face 
was  a  strange,  compressed  look,  and  her  eyes 
were  red-lidded. 

"Can  I  come  in?"  she  asked  with  tremulous 
abruptness. 

"Please  do,"  said  David. 

She  entered  and  moved  to  the  foot  of  the  couch 
where  she  could  look  down  on  Rogers.  "I've 
come  to  say  something — and  to  say  good-bye," 
she  announced. 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW    301 

"Say  good-bye?"  Rogers  sat  up.  "Good- 
bye? Why?  Oh,  you  have  a  new  position?" 

"No.  I've  no  right  to  be  here.  You  won't 
want  me  when  you  know.  So  I'm  going." 

Her  face  tightened  with  the  effort  of  holding 
down  sobs.  The  two  men  looked  at  her  in  won- 
derment, waiting. 

"You  know  how  broke  up  I  was  when  you  told 
me  about  yesterday  afternoon,"  she  went  on, 
"and  how  mad  I  was  at  Mr.  Chambers.  And 
then  to  find  out  what  I  have!  .  .  .  Here's 
what  I've  come  to  tell  you.  Yesterday  after- 
noon and  last  night  my  father  was  drinking  a 
great  deal.  I  wondered  where  he  got  the  money. 
This  morning  I  went  through  his  clothes  while 
he  was  asleep;  there  were  several  dollars.  I 
asked  him  about  it.  He  lied  to  me,  of  course. 
But  I  got  the  truth  out  of  him  in  the  end. 

"You  remember  that  detective  you  told  me 
about  last  night.  When  he  left  here  yesterday 
about  noon  he  happened  to  see  my  father  sweep- 
ing off  the  sidewalk.  He  began  to  talk  to  my 
father,  got  my  father  to  drinking,  gave  him  some 
money.  And  after  a  while  my  father — he'd 
learned  it  somehow — he  told  the  detective — he 
told  him  you  were  Red  Thorpe." 

The  two  men  were  silent  a  moment,  looking  at 
the  strained  face  down  which  tears  were  now 
running. 

"So  that's  how  it  happened!"  Rogers  breathed. 

"Yes — my  father  told!"  The  tremor  in  her 
voice  had  grown  to  sharp  sobs — of  shame,  agony, 
and  wrath.  "My  father  brought  all  this  on  you. 
And  it's  all  because  of  me.  If  you  both  hadn't 
tried  to  be  good  to  me,  my  father  would  not  have 


302  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

been  here  and  everything  would  have  turned  out 
right.  It's  all  because  of  me! — all  my  fault!— 
don't  you  see?  I  know  you'll  both  hate  me  now. 
I  know  you'll  want  me  to  go  away.  Well — I'm 
going.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am 
— how  sorry!  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

.David  wanted  to  speak  to  her,  but  this  was 
Rogers's  affair  rather  than  his. 

She  swept  them  both  with  her  brimming  eyes. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said  again,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"Miss  Morgan!"  called  Rogers. 

She  paused  and  looked  at  him. 

"Don't  go  yet." 

He  rose  and  came  to  her  with  outstretched 
hand.  "It  wasn't  your  fault." 

She  stared  dazedly  at  him.  "You're  ruined — 
you  told  me  so  last  night,  and  I  did  it.  Yes,  I 
did  it." 

"No.  You  couldn't  help  it.  You  mustn't  go 
at  all." 

She  took  his  hand  slowly,  in  astonishment. 
"Oughtn't  I  to  go?"  she  quavered. 

"You  must  stay  and  help  bear  it,"  he  said. 

She  looked  steadfastly  into  his  eyes.  "You're 
mighty  good  to  me,"  she  breathed  in  a  dry  whis- 
per. And  then  a  sob  broke  from  her,  and  turn- 
ing abruptly  she  went  into  the  office. 

In  the  afternoon  David  walked  over  to  St. 
Christopher's  to  meet  Helen  Chambers.  Besides 
his  bitterness,  and  his  suspense  over  seeing  her, 
David  felt  as  he  entered  the  door  of  the  Mission 
(what  he  had  felt  on  his  three  or  four  previous 
visits)  a  fear  of  meeting  some  wrathful,  upbraid- 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW    303 

ing  body  who  would  recognise  him.  But  he  met 
no  one  except  a  group  of  children  coming  with 
books  from  the  library,  and  unescorted  he  fol- 
lowed the  familiar  way  to  the  reception  room, 
where  Helen  had  written  she  would  meet  him. 
This,  like  the  rest  of  the  Mission's  interior  he 
had  seen,  was  practically  unchanged;  and  in  this 
maintenance  of  old  arrangements  he  read  rever- 
ence for  Morton.  He  wandered  about  the  room, 
looking  at  the  friendly,  brown- framed  prints 
that  summoned  back  the  far,  ante-prison  days. 
The  past,  flooding  into  him,  and  his  sense  of  the 
nearness  of  Helen,  crowded  out  for  the  time  all 
his  bitterness  over  Rogers's  destruction. 

When  Helen  appeared  at  the  door,  he  was  for 
an  instant  powerless  to  move,  so  thrilled  was  he 
with  his  love  for  her.  She  came  across  the  room 
with  a  happy  smile,  her  hand  held  out.  He 
strode  toward  her,  and  as  he  caught  her  hand  his 
blood  swept  through  him  in  a  warm  wave. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again  1"  she  cried,  and 
a  little  laugh  told  him  how  sincere  her  joy  was. 

A  sudden  desire  struggled  to  tell  her,  truly, 
how  great  was  his  gladness,  and  its  kind,  at  see- 
ing her  again ;  and  fighting  the  desire  back  made 
him  dizzy.  "And  I  to  see  you !"  he  said. 

"It's  been — let's  see — five  months  since  I've 
seen  you,  and — " 

"Five  months  and  four  days,"  the  desire  within 
David  corrected. 

"And  four  days,"  she  accepted,  with  a  laugh. 
"And  there've  been  so  many  things  during  that 
time  I've  wanted  to  talk  with  you  about.  But 
how  are  you?" 

She  moved  near  a  window.     She  was  full  of 


304  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

spirits  this  day.  The  out-door  life  from  which 
she  had  just  come,  the  wind,  the  sun,  the  water, 
were  blowing  and  shining  and  rippling  within 
her.  David,  in  analysing  his  love  for  her,  had 
told  himself  he  loved  her  because  of  her  able 
mind,  her  nobility  of  soul,  her  feeling  of  re- 
sponsibility toward  life.  Had  he  analysed 
further  he  would  have  found  that  her  lighter 
qualities  were  equally  responsible  for  his  love — 
her  sense  of  humour,  the  freshness  of  her  spirits, 
her  joy  in  the  pleasures  of  life.  She  had  never 
shown  him  this  lighter  side  with  more  freedom 
than  now — not  even  during  the  summer  seven 
years  before  when  for  two  weeks  they  had  been 
comrades; — and  David,  yesterday  forgotten, 
yielded  to  her  mood. 

He  frankly  looked  her  over.  She  wore  a  tailor- 
made  suit  of  a  rich  brown,  that  had  captured 
some  of  the  warm  glow  of  sun-lit  autumn,  and  a 
little  brown  hat  to  match  on  which  bloomed  a 
single  red  rose.  Her  face  had  the  clear  fresh 
brown  of  six  months'  sun,  and  the  sun's  sparkle, 
stored  in  her  deep  eyes,  beamed  joyously  from 
them.  She  was  a  long  vacation  epitomised, 
idealised. 

"May  I  say,"  he  remarked  at  length,  with  the 
daring  of  her  own  free  spirit,  "that  you  are  look- 
ing very  well?" 

For  her  part,  she  had  been  making  a  like  sur- 
vey of  him.  His  tall  figure,  which  had  regained 
its  old  erectness,  was  enveloped  in  clothes  that 
fit  and  set  it  off;  and  his  clean-lined  face,  whose 
wanness  had  been  driven  away  by  the  life  in  hers, 
looked  distinguished  against  the  background  of 
the  dark-green  window  hangings. 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW  305 

"You  may,"  she  returned,  "if  you  will  permit 
me  to  say  the  same  of  you." 

"Of  me?  Oh,  no.  I'm  an  old  man,"  he  said 
exultantly.  "Do  you  know  how  old  I  am?"  He 
touched  his  head.  "See!  The  gray  hairs!" 

"Yes — at  least  a  dozen,"  she  said  gravely. 
"Such  an  old  man!" 

"Thirty-one !     Isn't  it  awful  ?" 

"Twenty-eight — that's  worse  for  a  woman!" 

They  looked  at  each  other  solemnly  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  she  broke  into  a  laugh  that  had  the 
music  of  summer,  and  he  joined  her. 

Her  face  became  more  serious,  but  all  the  spar- 
kle remained  in  it.  "There  are  so  many  things 
I  want  to  talk  over  with  you.  One  is  a  check  my 
father  has  just  given  me.  Every  autumn  he 
gives  me  a  sum  to  spend  on  philanthropic  pur- 
poses just  as  I  see  fit — he  never  asks  me  about 
it.  The  check's  for  twenty  thousand  dollars.  I 
thought  you  might  have  some  suggestions  as  to 
what  to  do  with  it — something  in  line  with  what 
we  have  often  talked  about.  But  we'll  speak  of 
that  and  some  other  things  later.  First  of  all, 
have  you  heard  anything  from  your  book?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"You  will — and  favourably,  I  am  sure.  I 
want  to  say  again  what  I've  written — I  think  it's 
splendid  as  a  piece  of  literary  work  and  splendid 
as  a  work  of  serious  significance.  And  Uncle 
Henry  is  just  as  enthusiastic  as  I  am." 

David  reddened  with  pleasure,  and  his  enthusi- 
asm, dead  for  over  a  month  now,  began  to  warm 
with  new  life.  Her  eyes  were  looking  straight 
into  his  own,  and  the  love  that  had  several  times 
urged  him  beyond  the  limits  of  discretion,  now 


306 

pressed  him  again — and  again  all  his  strength 
was  required  to  hold  it  silent. 

"But  come! — we  were  to  walk,  you  know,"  she 
said,  smiling  lightly.  "I'll  prove  that  I'm  the 
better  walker." 

During  their  silent  passage  through  the  halls 
to  the  Mission  door,  it  returned  to  him  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  the  man  who,  by  an  even- 
toned  word,  had  destroyed  one  of  his  hopes  and 
utterly  destroyed  all  of  Rogers's.  His  high 
spirit,  which  had  been  but  a  weaker  reflection  of 
her  own,  faded  from  his  face,  leaving  it  tired 
and  drawn;  and  she,  looking  up  at  him,  saw  the 
striking  change. 

"Why,  have  you  been  ill?"  she  exclaimed. 

A  grim  little  smile  raised  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  "No." 

"Then  you've  been  working  too  hard.  What 
have  you  been  doing  since  you  finished  your 
book?" 

He  briefly  told  of  his  discharge  and  his  ac- 
ceptance of  a  position  with  Rogers — and  while 
he  spoke  his  refluent  bitterness  tempted  him  to 
go  on  and  tell  her  father's  act  of  yesterday. 

"But  this  was  over  a  month  ago,"  she  said 
when  he  had  ended.  "Have  the  expected  de- 
velopments in  Mr.  Rogers's  business  taken 
place?" 

"Tell  her  all,"  Temptation  ordered.  He  re- 
sisted this  command,  and  then  Temptation  ap- 
proached him  more  guilefully.  "Tell  her  all, 
only  give  no  names  but  yours  and  Rogers,  and 
no  clues  that  would  enable  her  to  identify  her 
father."  This  appealed  to  David's  bitterness, 
and  instantly  he  began. 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW    307 

He  told  her  Rogers 's  true  story,  which  of 
course  he  had  as  yet  not  done — of  Rogers's  fight, 
so  like  his  own — of  Rogers's  deception  of  the 
world  for  ten  years  that  he  might  live  honestly — 
of  his  loneliness  during  that  time,  his  fears,  his 
secret  kindnesses — of  the  first  stages  of  the  real 
estate  deal — of  the  vast  meaning  of  success  to 
Rogers,  and  of  its  meaning  to  himself — and 
finally  of  the  happenings  of  the  day  before. 
"So  you  see,"  he  ended,  "this  Mr.  A.  has  utterly 
destroyed  Mr.  Rogers,  in  cold  blood,  merely 
that  he  might  increase  the  profits  of  his  com- 
pany." 

She  had  followed  him  with  tensest  interest, 
and  indignation's  flame  in  cheek  and  eye  had 
grown  higher  and  higher. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  demanded,  slowly, 
"that  any  man  would  do  such  a  thing  as  that?" 

"Yes — and  a  most  respected  citizen." 

"It  was  heartless !"  she  burst  out  hotly.  "That 
man  would  do  anything!" 

It  filled  David  with  grim  joy  to  hear  her  pass 
such  judgment  upon  her  own  father.  At  that 
moment  he  was  untroubled  by  a  single  thought 
as  to  whether  he  had  acted  honourably  to  betray 
her  into  pronouncing  judgment. 

"That  man  should  be  exposed!"  she  went  on. 
"Honourable  business  men  should  ostracise  him. 
Won't  you  tell  me  his  name?  Perhaps  my 
father  can  do  something." 

An  ironic  laugh  leaped  into  David's  throat. 
He  checked  it.  "No,  I  cannot  tell  his  name." 

Her  indignation  against  the  destroyer  gave 
way  to  sympathy  for  the  destroyed.  She  saw 
Rogers  defeated,  despairing,  utterly  without 


308  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

chance.  They  came  to  David's  street  and  her 
sympathy  drew  her  into  it. 

"I'm  so  sorry  for  him!"  she  burst  out.  "So 
sorry!  I  wish  I  could  do  something.  I'd  like 
to  go  in  and  tell  him  what  I  feel — if  you  think 
he  wouldn't  mind  that  from  a  stranger." 

"I'm  afraid  he  would,"  said  David,  grimly. 

They  fell  silent.  As  they  drew  to  within  a 
block  of  the  house,  David  saw  the  Mayor  of 
Avenue  A,  whom  he  had  left  with  Rogers,  come 
down  the  steps  and  start  toward  them,  which  was 
also  toward  the  cafe.  The  Mayor  recognised 
them  instantly,  and  a  smile  began  to  shine  on  his 
pink  face.  He  had  long  been  wanting  to  meet 
Helen,  and  now  the  chance  was  his.  He  came 
up,  his  overcoat  spread  wide  at  the  demand  of 
his  vest,  and,  pausing,  took  off  his  hat  with  his 
best  ball-room  flourish. 

"I've  heard  a  great  deal  about  you  through 
Mr.  Aldrich,"  Helen  said,  when  David  had  intro- 
duced them.  "I'm  very  happy  to  meet  you." 

"And  I'm  happy  to  meet  you,  miss,"  he  re- 
turned, bowing,  making  a  graceful  sweep  with 
his  hat,  and  vigorously  shaking  the  hand  she 
had  given  him.  "And  me,  I've  heard  about  you  a 
lot — and  that  long  before  I  saw  Mr.  Aldrich. 

"From  St.  Christopher's,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  there — and  elsewhere,"  said  the  Mayor, 
smiling  gallantly.  "On  the  society  pages.  I've 
seen  lots  o'  pieces  about  you,  and  seen  your  pic- 
ture there  among  the  beauties  of  society." 

The  Mayor  expected  to  see  her  blush  with 
gratification  and  ask  for  more — as  women  al- 
ways did.  But  she  quickly  shifted  to  another 
subject. 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW    309 

"Mr.  Aldrich  has  just  been  telling  me  of  a 
business  affair  you,  he  and  Mr.  Rogers  have  been 
engaged  in." 

"Oh,  has  he!" 

The  Mayor,  in  the  agreeable  experience  of 
meeting  Helen,  had  forgotten  there  was  such  a 
person  as  her  father.  But  he  was  the  gallant 
no  longer.  His  feet  spread  apart,  his  face 
grew  stern,  and  he  looked  Helen  squarely  in  the 
eyes. 

"Well,"  he  demanded,  " — and  what  do  you 
think  o'  your  father  now?" 

"My  father?"  she  said  blankly. 

David  caught  his  arm.  "Keep  still,  Hoff- 
man!" he  cried  roughly. 

The  Mayor  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in 
astonishment.  "What,"  he  cried,  "d'you  mean 
you  hadn't  told  her  it  was  her  father?" 

The  colour  of  summer  faded  slowly  from  Hel- 
en's face,  and  a  hand  reached  out  and  caught  a 
stoop  railing.  Her  eyes  turned  piercingly,  ap- 
pealingly,  to  David.  After  a  moment  she  whis- 
pered, "My  father — was  that  man?" 

He  nodded. 

Her  head  sank  slowly  upon  her  breast,  and  for 
moment  after  moment  she  stood  motionless, 
silent. 

The  Mayor  when  he  had  thought  of  her  as  an 
instrument  to  strike  her  father,  had  not  thought 
the  instrument  itself  might  be  pained.  Filled 
with  contrition,  he  stammered:  "Please,  Miss, 
I'm  sorry — I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you." 

She  did  not  answer;  she  seemed  not  to  have 
heard.  A  moment  later  she  lifted  a  gray,  drawn 
face  to  David. 


310  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Mr.  Aldrich,"  she  said  tremulously,  "will  you 
please  put  me  in  a  cab?" 

In  the  cab  she  sat  with  the  same  stricken  look 
upon  her  face.  She  had,  as  David  had  once  said 
to  the  Mayor,  always  regarded  her  father  as  a 
man  of  highest  honour.  She  had  never  felt  con- 
cern in  his  business  affairs,  or  any  business  af- 
fairs, despite  the  fact  that  her  interests  over- 
reached in  so  many  directions  the  usual  interests 
of  women,  and  despite  the  fact  that  her  heart 
was  in  various  material  conditions  which  busi- 
ness had  created  and  which  business  could  relieve. 

Seen  from  the  intimate  view-point  of  the 
home,  her  father  was  generous  and  kind.  She 
had  heard  of  the  reports  that  circulated  in  the 
distant  land  of  business,  and  she  had  glanced  at 
some  of  the  articles  that  had  appeared  in  years 
past  in  magazines  and  newspapers,  and  she  knew 
that  stories  were  at  this  time  current.  Her  con- 
ception of  her  father  had  given  the  silent  lie  to 
all  these  reports.  She  believed  they  sprang 
from  jealousy,  or  false  information,  or  a  dis- 
torted view.  They  had  troubled  her  little,  save 
to  make  her  indignant  that  her  father  was  so  ma- 
ligned; and  even  this  indignation  had  been  tem- 
pered with  philosophic  mildness,  for  she  had 
remembered  that  it  had  ever  been  a  common 
fate  of  men  of  superior  purpose,  or  superior 
parts,  or  superior  fortune,  to  be  misunderstood 
and  to  be  hated. 

But,  all  of  a  sudden,  her  conception  of  her 
father  was  shattered.  This  thing  he  had  indu- 
bitably done  was  certainly  not  without  the  legal 
law,  and  perhaps  not  wholly  without  the  cold 


HELEN  GETS  A  NEW  VIEW    311 

lines  of  the  moral — but  it  was  hard-hearted, 
brutal.  "The  man  who  would  do  that  would  do 
anything1,"  she  had  said  to  David;  and  all  the 
way  home  in  the  cab  this  thought  kept  ringing 
through  her  consciousness,  and  kept  ringing  for 
days  afterwards.  It  lead  logically  and  immedi- 
ately to  the  dread  question:  "After  all,  may 
not  these  other  stories  be  true?" 

Helen  did  not  belong  to  that  easy-conscienced 
class  who  can  eliminate  unpleasantness  by  clos- 
ing their  eyes  against  it.  She  had  to  face  her 
question  with  open  vision — learn  what  truth  was 
in  it.  She  secured  all  she  could  find  in  print 
about  her  father  and  read  it  behind  the  locked 
door  of  her  room.  There  was  case  after  case  in 
which  her  father,  by  skilful  breaking  of  the  law, 
or  skilful  compliance  with  it,  or  complete  disre- 
gard of  moral  rights,  had  moved  relentlessly, 
irresistibly,  to  his  ends  over  all  who  had  opposed 
him.  The  picture  these  cases  drew  was  of  a 
man  it  sickened  her  daughter-love  to  look  upon 
—a  man  who  was  truly,  as  the  articles  frequently 
called  him,  an  "industrial  brigand,"  and  whose 
vast  fortune  was  the  "loot  of  a  master  bandit." 

The  articles  seemed  woven  of  fact,  but  she 
could  not  accept  them  unsubstantiated.  She 
must  know  the  truth — beyond  a  single  doubt. 
At  the  same  time,  she,  her  father's  daughter, 
could  not  go  to  the  men  he  had  wronged,  de- 
manding proof.  At  length  she  thought  of  her 
Uncle  Henry,  whom  she  loved  and  trusted,  and 
whom  she  knew  to  be  intimately  acquainted  with 
her  father's  career. 

To  him  she  went  one  night  and  opened  her 
fears.  "Are  these  things  true?"  she  asked. 


312  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

And  he  said:     "They  are  true." 

She  went  away,  grief-burdened,  feeling  that 
the  whole  structure  of  her  life  was  tottering. 
And  two  questions  that  before  had  been  vaguely 
rising,  became  big,  sharp,  insistent:  What 
should  be  her  attitude  toward  her  father,  whom 
she  loved?  And  what  should  be  her  attitude  to- 
:ward  his  fortune,  which  she  shared? 


CHAPTER  II 

DAVID  SEES  THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE 

WHEN  David  had  handed  Helen  into  the 
cab,  she  had  not  spoken  to  him,  had  not 
even  said,  "Thank  you,"  and  had  rolled  away 
without  giving  him  so  much  as  a  backward 
glance.  He  now  felt  it  had  been  brutal,  dishon- 
ourable, to  trap  her  into  denouncing  her  father 
and  then  to  strike  her  with  her  father's  guilt. 
He  was  certain  she  was  deeply  offended,  and  this 
conviction  grew  as  day  after  day  passed  without 
a  word  from  her. 

But  there  were  other  things  to  be  thought  of 
during  these  days.  There  was  his  future — upon 
which,  uncertain  as  it  was,  he  saw  that  Lillian 
Drew  was  to  be  a  parasite ;  for  she  had  made  an- 
other call  (while  Kate  was  out  of  the  office;  he 
was  thankful  for  that)  and  had  carried  away  the 
larger  fraction  of  his  small  store  of  money.  He 
was  again  workless — again  at  the  base  of  that 
high,  smooth  wall  which  before  he  had  been  able 
to  surmount  only  with,  as  it  were,  his  last  gasp- 
ing effort. 

What  he  should  do,  he  had  no  idea.  But  his 
own  future  he  thrust  aside  as  being  a  less  press- 
ing problem  than  Rogers's  future  and  Rogers's 
present.  As  Rogers  had  predicted,  the  fact 
that  he  was  Red  Thorpe  quickly  reached  the  ears 
of  his  clients,  and  they  all  lost  no  time  in  with- 

313 


314          TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

drawing  their  property  from  his  charge.  The 
owner  who  had  forced  David's  dismissal  as  jan- 
itor demanded  with  the  same  delicacy  that  Rog- 
ers should  vacate  the  rooms  he  occupied;  but 
Rogers  had  a  lease  and,  moreover,  had  paid  a 
month's  rent  in  advance,  so  they  and  their  be- 
longings were  not  tumbled  into  the  street. 

These  days  were  for  Rogers  solid  blackness. 
David  had  promised  to  share  with  him,  but  he 
saw  that  there  was  doubt  of  David's  having  any- 
thing to  share.  Even  if  David  did,  his  bitter 
mood  now  looked  upon  that  portion  as  charity, 
and  little  more  agreeable  to  his  pride  than  public 
charity — which  he  saw  as  a  near-looming,  shame- 
laden  spectre,  feared  more  than  death.  That  he 
who  had  had  the  brains  to  achieve  independence, 
who  had  been  on  the  verge  of  fortune,  should 
have  been  crushed  to  his  present  extremity — this 
filled  him  with  wild  revolt.  Kate,  with  a  sub- 
dued gentleness  that  begged  to  serve ;  Tom,  with 
his  alert  willingness;  David,  with  his  constant 
presence  and  consideration;  the  Mayor,  with  his 
ever-ready  vituperation  and  bluff  words  of  hope 
that  rang  hollow ; — they  all  tried  to  lift  the  drap- 
ing blackness  from  about  him — and  failed,  be- 
cause they  had  nothing  but  blackness  to  hang  in 
its  place. 

But  some  definite  plan  for  the  future  had  to  be 
made,  and  Rogers  himself  made  it.  Since  Col- 
orado was  not  for  him,  he  would,  as  soon  as  his 
month  here  was  ended,  secure  as  cheap  a  room  as 
he  could  find  and  try  to  stretch  his  small  funds 
to  reach  that  final  day  when  he  would  have  no 
need  of  more. 

Kate's  father  fell  with  the  rest  of  the  Rogers 


THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE       315 

regime,  and  from  the  basement  they  moved  into 
a  couple  of  cheap  rooms  a  few  blocks  away. 
David  had  often  considered  the  relation  between 
Kate  and  her  father:  aside  from  keeping  him 
alive  Kate  was  of  no  service  to  him — he  was  a 
terrible  drag  on  her;  if  they  could  be  separated, 
with  his  maintenance  secured,  he  would  be  no 
worse  off  and  she  would  be  far  better.  David 
now  talked  the  matter  over  with  Rogers;  to- 
gether they  talked  it  over  with  Kate,  who  finally 
yielded;  and  David  enlisted  the  interest  of  Dr. 
Franklin  in  behalf  of  getting  old  Jimmie  into  an 
institution  for  inebriates. 

There  was  little  for  Kate  to  do  in  Rogers's  of- 
fice, but  she  insisted  on  remaining  and  remaining 
without  salary.  "It's  because  of  me  all  this  hap- 
pened— you  may  need  me — I'm  going  to  stay," 
she  said  to  Rogers.  "I've  still  got  most  of  my 
last  month's  wages — two  or  three  weeks  will  be 
soon  enough  to  get  a  job."  And  nothing  Rog- 
ers urged  could  move  her. 

Tom  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  work,  but 
David  prevailed  on  him  to  continue  in  school. 
"Something  good  will  surely  turn  up,"  David 
said  to  the  boy.  But  days  went  and  nothing 
arose.  David  was  on  the  point  of  yielding  to 
Tom,  when  into  the  general  gloom  there  shot,  for 
him,  a  bright  shaft  of  hope.  Ten  days  after  he 
had  put  Helen  into  the  cab  a  letter  came  to  him 
addressed  in  her  handwriting.  He  hardly  dared 
open  it,  for  he  expected  reproof — delicately  con- 
veyed, of  course,  but  still  reproof.  When  he 
drew  the  letter  from  its  envelope  an  enclosure 
fell  unheeded  to  the  floor.  Instead  of  censure 
he  found  this: 


316  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"  It  seems  your  address  was  not  on  your  manuscript, 
so  Mr.  Osborne  has  sent  the  enclosed  letter  to  you  in 
care  of  me.  I  can  hardly  refrain  from  opening  it.  I 
feel  certain  there  is  good  news  in  it.  I  congratulate 
you  in  advance! 

"  You  know  how  interested  I  am,  so  I  know  you'll 
come  and  tell  me  all  about  it  just  as  soon  as  you  learn 
the  book's  fate.  You'll  find  me  in  almost  any  time." 

David  picked  up  the  envelope — stamped  in 
one  corner  with  "William  Osborne  &  Co,"  a  name 
he  had  once  worshipped  from  afar  off — ripped  it 
open  and  read  the  f olowing,  signed  by  Mr.  Os- 
borne himself : 

"  We  have  been  greatly  interested  in  your  story.  If 
you  will  call  at  your  convenience  I  shall  be  glad  to  talk 
with  you  about  it." 

David  stared  at  the  three  typewritten  lines. 
The  letter  was  not  an  acceptance — but  then 
neither  was  it  a  rejection.  A  wild  hope  leaped 
up  within  him.  Could  it  be  here  was  a  ladder  up 
the  unseizable  wall?  Could  it  be  the  success  he 
had  failed  of  five  years  before  was  at  last  about 
to  be  won?  He  dared  not  let  himself  be  swept 
to  these  dizzy  heights;  he  knew  how  far  it  was 
to  the  ground.  So  he  told  himself  it  could  not 
be  possible.  Still,  was  there  not  a  chance? 

He  slipped  away  without  hinting  of  his  hope 
to  Rogers — there  would  be  time  for  telling  later, 
if  anything  was  to  tell — and  at  ten  o'clock 
reached  a  little  five-story  brick  building  off 
Union  Square  that  was  the  home  of  William  Os- 
borne &  Co.  At  first  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
enter.  He  remembered,  as  he  walked  on,  a 


THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE       817 

manuscript  novel  he  had  left  here  in  the  long 
ago — and  it  came  back  to  him  that  this  was  the 
very  manuscript  he  had  been  working  over  on 
that  day,  now  more  than  five  years  gone,  when 
Morton's  death  had  summoned  him  to  St.  Chris- 
topher's. 

When  he  reached  the  door  again  he  drove  him- 
self in  and  was  swung  to  the  top  floor  in  a  little 
creaking  elevator,  and  before  his  courage  had 
time  to  recede  he  was  within  a  railed-off  square 
in  a  large  room  and  had  given  his  name  to  a  boy 
to  be  carried  to  Mr.  Osborne.  In  a  moment  the 
boy  returned  and  led  him  across  the  room,  filled 
with  sub-editors,  manuscript  readers  and  stenog- 
raphers, and  ushered  him  into  a  small  private  of- 
fice. Here  at  a  desk  sat  a  white-haired  man 
chatting  with  two  visitors. 

The  white-haired  man  rose  as  David  entered 
and  smiled  a  kindly,  spectacled  smile.  "I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Aldrich.  If  you'll  excuse 
me  for  a  minute,  I'll  be  right  with  you." 

David  sat  down  in  the  chair  Mr.  Osborne  indi- 
cated and  waited  with  pulsing  suspense  for  the 
two  men  to  go.  There,  on  one  corner  of  Mr.  Os- 
borne's  desk,  which  was  littered  with  letters, 
manuscripts  and  magazine  page-proofs,  he  saw 
his  book.  He  felt,  as  he  waited,  almost  as  he 
had  felt  five  years  before  during  the  suffoca- 
ting minutes  between  the  return  of  the  jury 
with  its  verdict  and  the  verdict's  reading.  The 
verdict  on  the  book  was  ready.  What  was  it  to 
be? 

At  length  the  two  men  went  away.  Mr.  Os- 
borne turned  from  the  door  and  came  toward 
David,  smiling  cordially,  his  hand  outstretched. 


318  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Let  me  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Aldrich!"  he 
said  heartily. 

David  rose  and  put  a  nerveless  hand  into  Mr. 
Osborne's.  "You  mean — you  like  it?" 

"Indeed  I  do!  If  you  and  I  can  come  to  an 
agreement,  we  shall  be  proud  to  publish  it." 

David  gazed  swimmingly  at  him.  There  was 
a  whirling,  a  bubbling,  within  him — but  he  man- 
aged to  say  with  fair  control:  "It's  hardly  nec- 
essary to  tell  an  old  publisher  how  happy  a  new 
author  is  to  hear  that." 

Mr.  Osborne  sat  down  and  David  automat- 
ically did  likewise. 

"You,  Mr.  Aldrich,  have  particular  reason  to 
feel  happy.  We  print  a  great  many  well-writ- 
ten, dramatic  stories — stories  which  are  just  that, 
and  no  more.  That,  of  course,  is  a  great  deal. 
But  when  a  book,  without  impairment  to  its  dra- 
matic and  artistic  quality,  leaves  a  profound  im- 
pression regarding  some  aspect  of  life — that 
book  has  an  element  of  bigness  that  the  other 
stories  lack.  Mr.  Aldrich,  yours  is  such  a  story." 

David  felt  he  was  reeling  off  his  chair. 
"Yes?"  he  said. 

Mr.  Osborne  went  on  to  praise  the  book  in  de- 
tail. After  a  time  he  proposed  terms.  David 
took  in  hardly  a  word  of  the  offer ;  his  mind  was 
over-running  with  his  success,  his  praise.  But 
he  accepted  the  terms  instantly. 

This  settled,  Mr.  Osborne  picked  up  several 
yellowed  type-written  sheets  from  his  disordered 
desk.  "By  the  way,  are  you  the  David  Aldrich 
that  submitted  us  a  novel  five  or  six  years  ago 
called  "The  Master  Knot?" 

"Yes,"  said  David. 


THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE       819 

"I  thought  you  might  be  interested  in  the 
readers'  opinions  on  that  story,  so  I  had  them 
brought  in." 

He  handed  the  sheets  to  David,  and  when  he 
saw  David  had  glanced  them  through,  he  re- 
marked: "You  see  they  all  amount  to  the  same. 
'The  author  knows  how  to  write,  but  he  does  not 
know  life.' '  He  gazed  steadily  at  David 
through  the  kindly  spectacles.  "Since  then,  Mr. 
Aldrich,  you  have  come  to  know  life." 

"I  think  I  have."  David  strained  to  keep  his 
voice  natural. 

"Yes,  you  have  come  to  know  life — to  feel  it." 
He  paused,  and  considered  within  himself.  For 
all  his  warmth,  there  had  been  in  his  tone  and 
manner,  caution,  reserve.  Suddenly  these  fell 
away,  and  he  radiated  enthusiasm. 

"I  try  never  to  raise  false  hopes  in  a  young 
author,"  he  cried,  "but  I've  got  to  say  more  than 
I've  said.  Really,  I  think  I've  made  what  a  pub- 
lisher is  always  looking  for,  hoping  for — a  great 
find,  a  real  writer!  You're  going  to  do  big 
things!" 

David  dared  not  respond;  he  knew  his  voice 
would  not  be  steady. 

"Yes — big  things,"  Mr.  Osborne  repeated. 
"But  here's  another  point  I  wanted  to  speak  of. 
We  can  use  several  short  stories  from  you  in  our 
magazine.  If  you  have  any,  or  will  write  some, 
that  are  anywhere  near  as  good  as  the  book,  I 
can  guarantee  acceptance." 

It  was  a  moment  before  David  could  trust 
himself  to  speak.  "I  have  none,  but  I  should 
like  to  write  some."  Then  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered he  had  not  the  money  to  carry  him  through 


320  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

the  period  that  must  elapse  before  the  stories 
could  be  written  and  paid  for.  "But  I  fear  I'm 
not  in  a  position  to  write  them  just  now,"  he 
added. 

Mr.  Osborne  had  had  thirty  years'  experience 
with  the  impecuniosity  of  authors.  "Money?" 
he  queried. 

There  was  no  taking  offence  at  the  friendly 
way  he  asked  this.  "Yes,"  David  confessed. 

"I  think  we  can  solve  that  difficulty.  I  don't 
know  how  the  book  there  is  going  to  sell.  I 
was  a  publisher  before  you  were  born,  but  after 
all  my  experience  I  have  to  regard  the  commer- 
cial side  of  publishing  as  pretty  much  of  a  gam- 
bling game.  Critically,  your  book  is  certain  of 
great  success.  Financially — I  don't  know.  It 
may  win  in  a  large  way;  I  hope  so.  But  you 
are  sure  of  at  least  a  moderate  sale.  Suppose, 
then,  I  make  you  a  small  advance  on  your  roy- 
alty. Say — let's  see — well,  three  hundred. 
Will  that  do?" 

David  felt,  as  he  had  felt  since  he  had  heard 
his  verdict,  that  to  venture  beyond  a  monosylla- 
ble would  be  to  explode.  He  swallowed. 
"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,  then.  Do  you  prefer  check  or 
cash?" 

"Cash." 

Ten  minutes  later  David  entered  the  street, 
three  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket,  his  heart  wild 
with  joy,  hope.  He  wanted  to  run,  to  shout,  to 
fly.  His  glowing  face  was  the  visage  of  tri- 
umph. 

At  last  the  success  he  had  prayed  for — striven 
for— given  up — had  come! 


THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE       321 

He  turned  northward,  to  carry  the  news  to 
Helen.  A  suggestion  of  hers  flashed  into  his 
mind:  the  book  might  help  pay  his  debt  to  the 
Mission.  Obeying  impulse  he  walked  into  a 
bank  he  was  at  the  instant  passing,  and  when  he 
came  out  there  was  in  an  inner  coat  pocket  a 
draft  for  two  hundred  dollars  made  out  to  the 
Reverend  Joseph  Franklin. 

All  the  way  to  Helen's  door  there  was  no  pave- 
ment beneath  his  feet.  When  he  had  called  here 
the  last  time — the  time  he  had  read  her  part  of 
the  story ;  he  was  a  shabby  creature  then — he  had 
borne  himself  very  humbly  toward  the  footman. 
Now  he  asked  for  Helen  with  a  buoyant  ring  in 
his  voice  and  fairly  flung  his  coat  and  hat  upon 
the  astonished  servant ;  and  he  bowed  with  a  new 
dignity  to  Helen's  aunt,  Mrs.  Bosworth,  whom 
he  met  on  the  stairway. 

Helen  met  him  at  the  drawing-room  door. 
"I  can  read  the  news  in  your  facel"  she  cried. 
"I'm  so  glad!" 

He  laughed  joyously  as  he  caught  her  hand. 
"Yes,  Mr.  Osborne  took  itl" 

"I  knew  he  would!  And  he  likes  it?  Tell 
me — how  does  he  like  it?" 

"You  must  ask  him.     But — he  likes  it!" 

"Immensely — I'm  certain!  Come,  you  must 
tell  me  all!" 

They  sat  down  and  David  told  her  of  his  half- 
hour  with  Mr.  Osborne.  Since  receiving  her 
note  that  morning  he  had  not  once  thought  of  the 
end  of  their  last  meeting.  If  he  had,  and  had 
been  aware  of  the  pain  that  meeting  had  brought 
her,  he  would  have  marvelled  at  the  ease  with 
which  she  threw  her  misery  aside  for  the  sake  of 


322  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

a  mere  friend,  a  dishonoured  friend.  But  he  did 
not  wonder;  he  just  drank  recklessly  of  this 
glorious  draught,  compounded  of  her  praise  and 
her  joy  in  his  joy. 

At  the  end  he  told  her  of  the  three  hundred 
dollars — never  thinking  that  it  was  barely  more 
than  the  price  of  the  simple-looking  gown  she 
wore,  that  it  was  but  a  penny  to  the  rich  furnish- 
ings of  the  drawing-room,  that  it  was  her  fath- 
er's income  for  perhaps  less  than  a  quarter  of 
a  business  hour.  And  completely  abandoned  to 
the  boyish  happiness  that  forced  him  to  share 
everything,  he  told  her  of  the  draft  for  two  hun- 
dred dollars. 

Her  face  shadowed ;  this  man,  who  was  paying 
back,  had  suddenly  brought  to  mind  her  father, 
who  was  not  paying  back.  But  quickly  a  deep 
glow  came  into  her  eyes. 

"You  should  be  as  proud  of  this  as  of  any 
of  the  rest,"  she  said. 

She  gazed  at  him  thoughtfully,  her  head 
slightly  nodding.  "Yes — you  are  going  to  win 
all  you  started  out  to  win,"  she  went  on,  her  low 
voice  vibrating  with  belief.  "You  are  going  to 
clear  your  name ;  you  are  going  to  achieve  a  per- 
sonal success;  you  are  going  to  carry  out  your 
dream  to  help  save  the  human  waste.  Yes,  you 
are  going  to  do  it  all." 

His  success,  her  words,  the  glowing  sincerity 
in  her  brown  eyes,  swept  him  to  the  heights  of 
exaltation.  Suddenly  his  love  made  another  of 
its  trials  to  burst  from  him. 

He  leaned  toward  her.  "And  there's  some- 
thing else  to  tell  you." 

"Yes?" 


THE  FACE  OF  FORTUNE       323 

But  he  did  not  go  on.  Instantly  his  love  was 
being  fought  back.  Exalted  though  he  was,  the 
old  compelling  reasons  for  silence  had  rushed  in- 
to him. 

"Yes?    What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

He  swallowed  hard.  "Some  other  time,"  he 
said. 

"When  the  time  comes,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  it." 

He  looked  into  her  steady  eyes,  and  saw  she 
had  no  guess  of  what  the  thing  might  be. 

"When  the  time  comes — I  shall  tell,"  he  said. 
But  in  his  heart  was  no  belief  that  time  would 
ever  come. 


CHAPTER  III 

HELEN'S  CONSCIENCE 

WHEN  David  reached  home  he  found  the 
Mayor  had  just  brought  over  Rogers's 
lunch  and  Kate,  with  the  help  of  Tom,  was  ar- 
ranging it  on  the  table.  He  threw  his  happiness 
among  them  in  a  score  of  words. 

The  Mayor  stepped  forward,  his  face  ruddied 
with  a  smile.  "Friend,  put  'er  there!"  invited 
his  gruff  diaphragm,  and  David  put  his  hand 
to  bed  in  the  big,  mattress-soft  palm.  "Well, 
sir,  I'm  certainly  happy — that's  me!  On  the 
level,  when  I  first  heard  you  were  tryin*  to  write 
a  book,  said  I  to  myself,  private-like,  'he'd  better 
be  makin'  tidies.'  But  you're  the  goods,  friend! 
Every  man  and  woman  on  the  Avenue  has  got 
to  buy  one  o'  your  books,  you  bet!" 

"Say,  pard,  you're  certainly  it!"  cried  Tom, 
who  had  seized  him  from  the  other  side.  "Dat 
puts  you  on  top — way  up  where  you  belongs. 
An'  no  more  worryin'  about  de  coin!" 

"I'm  glad  too, — you  know  that,  Aldrich!"  said 
Rogers,  grasping  David's  hand.  Rogers's  face 
was  drawn;  David's  success  had  freshened,  em- 
phasised, his  own  failure.  "I  wish  both  of  us 
could  have  pulled  out.  But  if  only  one  of  us 
could,  it's  best  that  that  one  is  you.  I'm  glad, 
Aldrich!" 

David  felt  the  pain  behind  Rogers's  words, 
824 


HELEN'S  CONSCIENCE         325 

felt  their  pathos,  and  he  suddenly  was  ashamed 
of  his  success.  "It's  because  I  was  doing  some- 
thing where  the  world  did  not  have  to  trust  me," 
he  said  apologetically. 

"It's  because  you  are  the  exceptional  man,  do- 
ing the  exceptional  thing.  They  have  a  chance. 
The  others  have  not." 

Kate  had  not  moved  since  David  had  an- 
nounced his  good  fortune.  She  stood  with  her 
hands  on  the  table  and  leaning  slightly  against 
it,  her  white,  strained  face  fastened  on  David. 
"I'm  glad,  too,"  she  now  said,  in  a  voice  that  had 
a  trace  of  tremolo;  and,  turning  abruptly,  she 
went  into  the  office. 

In  there,  alone,  she  sat  at  her  desk  with  her 
cheeks  in  her  hands.  Soon,  with  a  little  burst 
of  despair,  she  cried  out:  "Why  did  this  have 
to  happen!"  And.  she  added,  with  a  moan: 
"Oh,  David,  this  puts  you  such  a  long  ways  off!" 

That  afternoon  and  evening  David  could  settle 
to  nothing ;  and  that  night  he  slept  not  a  minute 
for  sweeping  joy,  for  flashing  ideas  for  stories, 
for  swift,  vivid  visions  of  the  future. 

The  next  morning  he  had  a  note  from  Helen 
asking  him  to  call  in  the  afternoon.  "You  re- 
member my  speaking  to  you  about  the  check  for 
twenty  thousand  dollars  my  father  gave  me," 
she  said,  when  he  had  come.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  she  spoke  with  an  effort.  "I've  decided 
what  to  do  with  it.  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"If  I  can,"  he  said. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  Mr. 
Rogers."  She  paused,  then  went  on,  her  voice 
more  strained.  "He  should  not  have  lost  that 
money.  I  have  cashed  the  check.  I  want  to 


326  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

give  the  money  to  Mr.  Rogers — not  as  a  gift, 
but  as  property  that  belongs  to  him." 

He  looked  wonderingly  into  her  pained  eyes. 
"You're  in  earnest?"  he  said  slowly. 

"I  am — I  must  do  it.  And  I  want  you  to 
take  the  money  to  him,  from" — she  obeyed  a 
sudden  instinct  of  blood-loyalty — "from  my 
father." 

His  anger  against  her  father  suddenly  flamed 
up.  "From  your  father?  I  know  how  much 
your  father  knows  of  this  plan!" 

She  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him, 
though  she  had  quivered  at  his  words.  "I  want 
you  to  take  the  money  to  Mr.  Rogers.  You  will 
know  what  to  say." 

The  full  significance  of  what  she  had  said  was 
just  dawning  upon  him.  He  gazed  at  her,  won- 
dering what  must  have  been  passing  in  her  mind 
these  last  few  days. 

"Mr.  Rogers  is  very  proud,"  he  said.  "He'll 
not  take  the  money — at  least  not  from  me." 

"You're  certain?" 

"From  me — never." 

"Then  I  must  take  it  to  him  myself."  She 
rose.  "I'll  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  You 
must  go  with  me." 

He  rose  also.  Her  white  face,  that  met  his  so 
squarely,  told  him  how  deeply  she  felt,  how 
strong  her  determination  was. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  said. 

When  she  re-entered  the  library  she  was 
dressed  in  the  suit  of  autumn  brown  and  the 
brown  hat  with  its  single  rose,  which  she  had 
worn  the  day  they  had  met  at  St.  Christopher's. 
He  knew  she  felt  the  matter  of  her  errand  too 


HELEN'S  CONSCIENCE         827 

keenly  to  speak  of  it,  and  too  absorbingly  to 
speak  of  anything  else;  and  so,  in  silence,  they 
went  out  into  the  street. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  entered  Rogers's  of- 
fice. "Just  wait  a  minute,  while  I  tell  him  you're 
here,"  whispered  David,  and  went  into  the  living 
room  where  Rogers  was.  Presently  he  brought 
her  in,  introduced  her  to  Rogers,  and  withdrew. 

Helen  had  never  seen  Rogers.  Her  picture  of 
him  was  purely  of  the  imagination,  and  imagina- 
tion had  put  in  its  vague  portrait  the  hard  lines, 
the  hang-dog  look,  the  surly  bearing  that  might 
well  remain  with  a  reformed  criminal.  So  she 
was  totally  unprepared  for  the  slight  figure  with 
the  wasted,  intellectual  face  that  rose  from  an 
easy-chair  by  the  air-shaft  window,  and  for  the 
easy  gesture  and  even  voice  with  which  he  asked 
her  to  be  seated.  She  recognised  instantly  that 
to  make  him  accept  the  money  would  prove  a 
harder  task  than  she  had  counted. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  sitting  down  she 
studied  Rogers's  face  for  the  moment  she  was 
adjusting  her  faculties  to  the  new  difficulty. 
"Did  Mr.  Aldrich  tell  you  why  I  wished  to  see 
you?" 

"No."  He  would  be  courteous  to  her  for  the 
sake  of  the  request  David  had  made  to  him,  but 
his  hatred  of  her  father  allowed  him  only  a  mono- 
syllabic reply. 

To  speak  words  that  would  show  warm  sym- 
pathy for  him  and  no  disloyalty  to  her  father, 
this  was  her  problem.  "Mr.  Aldrich  has  told 
me  of  your  land  enterprise  and  how — it  failed," 
she  said  with  a  great  effort,  feeling  that  her 
words  were  cold  and  ineffective.  "He  told  me 


328  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

how  you  lost  a  large  sum  that  you  had  practically 
gained.  He  told  me  that  it  was — my  father — 
who  made  you  lose  it." 

Her  first  effort  would  carry  her  no  further. 
He  nodded. 

She  clutched  the  arms  of  her  chair,  breathed 
deeply,  and  drove  herself  on.  "You  should  not 
have  lost  it.  I  have  come  to  bring  you — to  ask 
you  to  let  me  return  to  you" — a  brown-gloved 
hand  drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  the  bag  in  her  lap 
— "this  money  that  belongs  to  you." 

She  held  the  elastic-bound  roll  out  to  him. 
His  interlocked  hands  did  not  move  from  his  lap. 

"I  don't  just  understand,"  he  said  slowly. 
"You  mean  that  this  money  is  the  equivalent  of 
what  I  should  have  made  in  the  land  deal?" 

"Yes." 

His  face  tinged  faintly  with  red,  his  bright 
eyes  (he  had  discarded  glasses,  now  that  a  dis- 
guise no  longer  served  him)  darted  quick  flames, 
and  he  leaned  toward  her. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  take  as  a  gift  that  which 
I  honestly  earned?"  he  demanded  in  a  low,  fierce 
voice. 

"But  it  is  not  offered  as  a  gift.  It  is  restitu- 
tion." 

"Restitution!  So  you  want  to  make  restitu- 
tion? Can  you  restore  the  strength  despair  has 
taken  from  me?  My  good  name  was  built  on 
deception,  but  I  had  worked  hard  for  it  and  it 
was  dear  to  me.  Can  you  restore  my  good 
name?  I've  lost  everything!  Can  you  restore 
everything?" 

The  ringing  bitterness  of  his  voice,  the  wasted 
face  working  with  the  passion  of  despair,  the 


HELEN'S  CONSCIENCE         320 

utter  hopelessness  of  the  future  which  her  quick 
vision  showed  her — all  these  stirred  a  great  emo- 
tion which  swept  her  father  from  her  mind.  Be- 
fore, she  had  sympathised  with  Rogers  ab- 
stractly; now  her  sympathy  was  for  a  hopeless 
soul,  bare  and  agonising  beneath  her  eyes. 

Her  words  rushed  from  her,  in  them  the  throb 
of  her  heart.  "No I  No!  I  can't  give  them 
back — no  one  can.  Oh,  what  a  wrong  it  was  I" 

He  stared  at  her.  The  wrath  and  bitterness 
on  his  face  slowly  gave  place  to  surprise. 

"Oh,  but  it  was  a  shame!"  she  cried,  her  face 
aflame,  her  voice  aquiver.  And  then  a  sense 
of  the  irretrievableness  of  this  wreck  laid  hold 
upon  her  and  a  quick  sob  broke  forth.  She  felt 
a  sympathetic  agony  for  Rogers,  and  an  agony 
that  she,  through  her  blood,  was  the  cause  of  his 
wrecked  life. 

"Oh,  it  was  terrible,  terrible!  You  are  right! 
Restitution  cannot  be  made — only  the  pitiful 
restitution  of  money.  But  you  must  let  me 
make  that — you  must!" 

He  felt  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  friend,  and 
it  was  as  to  a  friend  that  he  said  quietly:  "I 
can't." 

"But  you  must!"  She  was  now  thinking  of 
but  one  thing,  how  to  force  him  to  take  the  bills. 
"I'm  not  doing  you  a  favour.  I'm  asking  a 
favour  from  you.  I  come  to  you  in  humility, 
contrition.  The  money  I  bring  is  not  my  money 
—it  is  your  money.  My  father  entered  your 
house  and  took  it;  I  bring  it  back  to  you.  You 
merely  accept  your  own.  You  see  that,  don't 
you?  Surely  you  see  that !" 

Rogers  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  so 
dazed  by  the  rush  of  her  words — words  that 


330  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

sprang  from  complete  sympathy  and  under- 
standing, words  that  might  have  come  from  his 
own  heart — that  he  could  not. 

She  had  risen  and  now  stood  above  him. 
"You  understand,  don't  you?"  she  went  on  im- 
ploringly. "My  father  has  done  wrong;  I  feel 
it  just  as  though  I  had  done  it.  I  must  repair 
the  wrong  as  far  as  I  can.  You  must  take  this 
money  for  my  sake,  don't  you  see?" 

He  rose  and  started  to  speak,  but  she  cut  him 
off.  "I  know  what  is  in  your  heart;  your  pride 
wants  you  to  refuse.  If  you  refuse,  you  do  only 
one  thing:  you  deny  me  the  relief  of  partially 
correcting  a  wrong.  That  is  all.  Is  it  right  for 
you  to  deny  me  that?  Will  you  yourself  not  be 
doing  a  wrong?" 

He  was  trembling;  she  had  taken  the  only 
road  to  his  consent.  But  he  made  no  motion  to- 
ward the  money  in  her  outstretched  hand. 

"For  my  sake — I  beg  you — I  implore  you." 
She  spoke  tremulously,  simply. 

He  held  out  a  thin  hand,  and  she  laid  the 
money  in  it.  "For  your  sake,"  he  breathed. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

Helen  felt  herself  growing  weak  and  dizzy. 
The  reaction  was  setting  in.  "I  must  go.  I 
can't  ask  you  to  forgive  me — but  won't  you  let 
me,  as  one  that  would  like  to  be  regarded  as  a 
friend,  wish  that  there  may  be  brightness  ahead 
which  you  don't  see." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  timidly.  He  grasped 
it.  He  could  not  speak. 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered,  and  slowly 
turned  away.  At  the  door  she  paused,  and 
looked  back.  "My  best  wishes  are  with  you," 
she  said,  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  ORDEAL  OF  KATE  MORGAN 

rriHAT  night  David  and  Rogers  had  a  long 
A  talk.  In  consequence,  correspondence  was 
re-opened  with  the  sanitarium  at  Colorado 
Springs,  and  David  began  to  spend  part  of  his 
time  in  helping  equip  Rogers  for  the  distant 
struggle  against  death. 

During  the  two  weeks  since  his  exposure  Rog- 
ers had  not  railed;  he  had  borne  his  defeat  in 
grim,  quiet  despair.  His  bitterness  did  not  now 
depart;  he  had  not  forgotten  his  defeat,  and  he 
had  not  forgiven  the  world.  But  his  life  now 
had  an  object,  and  the  hope,  which  the  really 
brave  always  save  from  even  the  worst  wreck,  be- 
gan to  stir  within  him. 

The  next  two  weeks  David  worked  with  his 
pen  as  he  had  never  worked  before.  He  was  in 
that  rare  mood  when  things  flow  from  one.  Be- 
fore the  end  of  the  two  weeks  he  turned  in  to 
Mr.  Osborne  two  short  stories  which  Mr.  Os- 
borne,  with  the  despatch  a  publisher  gives  a  new 
author  he  is  desirous  of  holding,  immediately  ex- 
amined, accepted  and  paid  for  at  a  very  respecta- 
ble rate.  Mr.  Osborne  suggested  a  series  of  ar- 
ticles for  his  magazine,  spoke  of  more  stories, 
assured  David  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  mar- 
keting his  writing  elsewhere;  and  when  David 

831 


332  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

left  the  publisher's  office  it  was  with  the  exultant 
sense  that  financially  his  future  was  secure. 

Mr.  Osborne  assured  him  his  book  was  going 
to  turn  much  serious  thought  to  our  treatment 
of  the  criminal  and  other  wasted  people,  and  that 
his  shorter  writings  were  going  to  help  to  the 
same  end.  His  publisher  asked  him  to  speak  be- 
fore a  club  interested  in  reform  measures,  and 
his  talk,  straight  from  the  heart  and  out  of  his 
own  experience,  made  a  profound  impression. 
The  success  of  this  speech  suggested  to  him  an- 
other means  of  helping — the  spoken  word.  He 
felt  that  at  last  his  life  was  really  beginning  to 
count. 

But  he  realised  he  was  still  only  at  the  begin- 
ning. Before  him  was  that  giant's  task,  con- 
quering the  respect  of  the  world — with  the  re- 
payment of  St.  Christopher's  as  the  first  step. 
The  task  would  require  all  his  mind  and  strength 
and  courage  and  patience,  for  years  and  years 
and  years — with  success  at  the  end  no  more  than 
doubtful. 

The  more  David  pondered  upon  the  ills  he  saw 
about  him,  the  less  faith  did  he  have  in  super- 
ficial reforms,  the  deeper  did  he  find  himself  go- 
ing for  the  real  cure.  And  gradually  he  reached 
the  conclusion  that  the  idea  behind  the  present 
organization  of  society  was  wrong.  That  idea, 
stripped  to  its  fundamentals,  was  selfishness— 
and  even  a  mistaken  selfishness :  for  self  to  gain 
for  self  all  that  could  be  gained.  Under  this 
organization  they  that  have  the  greatest  chance 
are  they  that  are  strong  and  cunning  and  un- 
scrupulous, and  he  that  is  all  three  in  greatest 
measure  can  take  most  for  himself.  So  long  as 


KATE'S  ORDEAL  833 

the  world  and  its  people  are  at  the  mercy  of  such 
an  organization,  so  long  as  self-interest  is  the 
dominant  ideal — just  so  long  will  the  great  mass 
of  the  people  be  in  poverty,  just  so  long  will 
crime  and  vice  remain  unchecked. 

He  began  to  think  of  a  new  organization  of 
society,  where  individual  selfishness  would  be  re- 
placed as  the  fundamental  idea  by  the  interest 
of  the  whole  people — where  "all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal"  would  not  be  merely  a  handsome 
bit  of  rhetoric,  but  where  there  would  be  true 
equality  of  chance — where  the  development  of 
the  individual  in  the  truest,  highest  sense  would 
be  possible — where  that  major  portion  of  vice 
and  crime  which  spring  from  poverty  and  its  ills 
would  be  wiped  out,  and  there  would  remain 
only  the  vice  and  crime  that  spring  from  the  in- 
stincts of  a  gradually  improving  human  nature. 
And  so,  without  losing  interest  in  immediate 
changes  that  might  alleviate  criminal-making 
conditions,  David  set  his  eyes  definitely  upon 
the  great  goal  of  a  fundamental  change. 

Since  Rogers  would  soon  be  gone,  David  be- 
gan to  look  for  new  quarters.  His  pride  shrunk 
from  a  boarding-house,  where  he  knew  he  would 
be  liable  to  snubs  and  insults.  As  money  mat- 
ters troubled  him  no  longer,  he  leased  a  small  flat 
with  a  bright  southern  exposure,  in  an  apart- 
ment house  just  outside  the  poorer  quarter.  If 
he  and  Tom  prepared  most  of  their  own  meals 
they  could  live  here  more  cheaply  than  in  a  board- 
ing-house, and  he  could  save  more  to  quiet  Lil- 
lian Drew  and  to  pay  off  the  debt  to  St.  Christo- 
pher's. 

One  afternoon,  while  David  was  at  the  Pan- 


334  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

American  talking  to  the  Mayor,  and  Kate  was 
at  her  desk  type-writing  a  manuscript,  the  office 
door  opened  and  closed,  and  a  low,  satiric  voice 
rasped  across  the  room : 

"Hello,  little  girl!" 

Kate  looked  about,  then  quickly  rose.  Her 
cheeks  sprang  aflame.  At  the  door  stood  Lillian 
Drew,  smiling  mockingly,  her  face  flushed  with 
spirits. 

"Hello,  little  girl!"  she  repeated. 

Kate's  instinctive  hatred  of  this  woman, 
founded  partly  on  what  Lillian  Drew  obviously 
was,  but  more  on  the  certainty  that  she  had  some 
close  and  secret  connection  with  David's  life, 
made  Kate  tremble.  A  year  before  the  wrathful 
words  that  besought  to  pass  her  lips  would  have 
burst  forth  unchecked.  But  she  controlled  her- 
self. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded. 

To  pain  a  person  who  stirred  her  antagonism, 
this  twenty  uncurbed  years  had  made  one  of  Lil- 
lian Drew's  first  instincts.  She  had  observed  be- 
fore that  Kate  disliked  her  and  stung  under  her 
"little  girl;"  consequently  to  inflict  her  presence 
and  the  phrase  on  Kate  was  to  gratify  instinct. 

She  walked  with  a  slight  unsteadiness  to  Da- 
vid's chair,  sat  down  and  smiled  baitingly  up  into 
Kate's  face.  "I've  just  come  around  to  have  a 
visit  with  you,  little  girl.  Sit  down." 

Kate  grew  rigid.  "If  you  want  Mr.  Aldrich, 
he's  not  here." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is.  But  I  don't  want  him  just 
yet.  I  want  to  have  a  visit  with  you."  She 
looked  Kate  up  and  down.  "Well,  now,  for 
such  a  little  girl,  you're  not  so  bad." 


KATE'S  ORDEAL  335 

Kate's  eyes  blazed.  "I  tell  you  he's  not  here. 
There's  no  use  of  your  waiting." 

"I'm  in  no  hurry  at  all.  But  you're  too  thin. 
You've  got  to  put  on  ten  or  fifteen  pounds  if  you 
expect  to  catch  his  eye." 

Kate  pointed  to  the  door.  "Get  out  of  here! 
— with  that  breath  of  yours  1" 

The  vindictive  fire  gathered  in  Lillian  Drew's 
eyes;  the  return  blow  of  her  victim  had  roused 
her  pain-giving  desire  into  wrath. 

"Oh,  you  want  to  catch  him,  all  right!"  she 
laughed,  malignantly.  "I  saw  that  in  a  second 
the  other  day  from  the  way  you  looked  at  him. 
But  d'you  think  he'll  care  for  a  girl  like  you?  I 
came  the  other  day  and  found  no  one  around  but 
that  nice  father  of  yours.  I  had  a  little  talk  with 
him,  and — well,  I've  got  you  sized  up  just  about 
right.  And  you  think  you're  the  girl  for  him!" 

Kate  took  one  step  forward  and  drew  back  her 
open  hand.  But  the  hand  paused  in  mid-blow. 
"You  drunken  she-devil!"  she  blazed  forth,  "get 
out  of  here! — or  I'll  have  the  police  put  you  out!" 

Lillian  Drew  sprang  up,  as  livid  as  if  the  hand 
had  indeed  cracked  upon  her  cheek,  and  glared 
at  the  flame  of  hatred  and  wrath  that  was  Kate 
Morgan.  Rage,  abetted  by  liquor,  had  taken 
away  every  thought,  every  desire,  save  to  strike 
this  girl  down.  Her  hands  clenched;  but  blows 
make  only  a  passing  hurt.  All  her  life  she  had 
used  words ;  words,  if  you  have  the  right  sort,  are 
a  better  weapon — their  wound  is  deep,  perma- 
nent. 

"You  little  skinny  alley-cat!"  she  burst  out 
furiously.  "You  think  you're  going  to  marry 
him,  don't  you.  You  marry  him!  Oh,  Lord!" 


336  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

Kate  shivered  with  her  passion.     "Get  out!" 

Lillian  Drew  gave  a  sharp,  crunching,  gloat- 
ing laugh.  "That's  it! — you  think  you're  going 
to  marry  him.  You  think  he's  a  thief,  don't  you. 
You  think  you're  in  his  class.  Well — let  me  tell 
you  something." 

She  drew  close  to  Kate  and  her  eyes  burned 
upon  Kate  with  wild  vindictive  triumph.  "He's 
not  a  thief — he  never  was  one !" 

"It's  a  lie!"  cried  Kate. 

"Oh,  he  says  he  is,  but  he's  not.  He  never 
took  that  five  thousand  dollars  from  St.  Chris- 
topher's. He  pretends  he  did,  but  he  didn't. 
You  hear  that,  little  girl? — he  didn't.  Phil 
Morton  took  it.  I  know,  because  I  got  it. 
— D'you  understand  now? — that  he's  not  a  thief? 
— that  he's  ten  thousand  miles  above  you?  And 
yet  you,  you  skinny  little  nothing,  you've  got  the 
nerve  to  think  you're  going  to  catch  him!  Oh, 
Lord!" 

"You're  drunker  than  I  thought!"  sneered 
Kate. 

"If  it  wasn't  true,  d'you  suppose  he'd  be  pay- 
ing me  to  keep  still  about  it?" 

"Pay  you  to  keep  still  about  his  not  being  a 
thief!  And  you  want  me  to  believe  that  too?" 
Kate  laughed  with  contempt.  Then  she  inquired 
solicitously :  "Would  you  like  a  bucket  of  water 
over  you  to  sober  you  a  bit?" 

At  this  moment  the  hall  door  opened  and  Da- 
vid entered  the  room.  He  paused  in  astonish- 
ment. "What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  sharply. 

The  two  had  turned  at  his  entrance,  and,  their 
faces  ablaze  with  anger,  were  now  glaring  at  him. 


KATE'S  ORDEAL  337 

Kate  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  her  words  tingled 
with  her  wrath. 

"Nothing.  Only  this  charming  lady  friend  of 
yours — don't  come  too  near  her  breath! — has 
been  telling  me  that  you  didn't  take  the  money 
from  the  Mission — that  Mr.  Morton  did — that 
she  got  it — that  you're  paying  her  not  to  tell  that 
you're  innocent." 

The  colour  slowly  faded  from  David's  face. 
He  held  his  eyes  a  moment  on  Kate's  infuriate 
figure,  and  then  he  gazed  at  Lillian  Drew.  She 
gazed  back  at  him  defiantly,  but  the  thought  that 
her  betrayal  of  the  secret  might  cut  off  her  sup- 
plies began  to  cool  her  anger.  David  thought 
only  of  the  one  great  fact  that  the  truth  had  at 
last  come  out;  and  finally  he  exclaimed,  almost 
stupidly,  more  in  astoundment  than  wrath: 

"So  this's  how  you've  kept  it  secret!" 

Kate  paled.  Her  eyes  widened  and  her  lips 
fell  apart.  She  caught  herself  against  her  desk 
and  stared  at  him. 

"So — it's  the  truth!"  she  whispered  with  dry 
lips. 

But  David  did  not  hear  her.  His  attention 
was  all  pointed  at  Lillian  Drew.  "This  is  the 
way  you've  kept  it,  is  it!"  he  said. 

"She's  the  only  one  I've  told,"  she  returned  un- 
easily. 

Her  effrontery  began  to  flow  back  upon  her. 
"She's  only  one  more  you've  got  to  square  things 
with.  Come,  give  me  a  little  coin  and  I'll  get 
out,  and  give  you  a  chance  to  settle  with  her." 

"You've  had  your  last  cent!"  he  said  harshly. 

"Oh,  no,  I  haven't.     I  don't  leave  till  you  come 


338  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

up  with  the  dough!"     She  sat  down,  and  looked 
defiantly  at  him. 

Kate  moved  slowly,  tensely,  across  to  David, 
gripped  his  arms  and  turned  her  white,  strained 
face  upon  his. 

"So — you  never  took  that  Mission  money!" 
Her  voice  was  an  awed,  despairing  whisper. 

Her  tone,  her  fierce  grip,  her  white  face,  sent 
through  him  a  sickening  shiver  of  partial  under- 
standing. "I'm  sorry — but  you  know  the 
truth." 

She  gazed  wide-eyed  at  him;  then  her  voice, 
still  hardly  more  than  a  whisper,  broke  out 
wildly:  "Yes — yes — you  took  it,  David!  Say 
that  you  took  it!" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "If  I  said  so— 
would  you  believe  me?"  he  asked. 

Her  head  slowly  sank,  and  her  hands  fell  from 
his  arms.  "Oh,  David!"  she  gasped — a  wild, 
choked  moan  of  despair.  She  took  her  hat  and 
jacket  from  their  hooks,  and  not  stopping  to  put 
them  on,  not  hearing  the  triumphant  "Good-bye, 
little  girl"  of  Lillian  Drew,  she  walked  out  of 
the  office. 

She  moved  through  the  acid-sharp  November 
air,  a  white- faced  automaton.  She  felt  a  vague, 
numb  infinity  of  pain.  She  perceived  neither 
the  causes  of  the  blow  nor  its  probable  results; 
she  merely  felt  its  impact,  and  that  impact  had 
made  her  whole  being  inarticulate. 

But  presently  her  senses  began  to  rouse.  She 
began  to  see  the  outlines  of  her  disaster,  its  con- 
sequences; her  great  vague  pain  separated  into 
distinct  pangs,  each  agonisingly  acute.  She  felt 
an  impulse  to  cry  out  in  the  street,  but  her  in- 


KATE'S  ORDEAL 

stinctive  pride  closed  her  throat.  She  turned 
back  and  hurried  to  her  room,  locked  herself  in, 
and  flung  her  hat  upon  the  floor  and  herself  up- 
on the  bed. 

But  even  here  she  could  not  cry.  All  her  life 
she  had  been  strong,  aggressive,  self -defending; 
she  had  cried  so  rarely  that  she  knew  not  how. 
So  she  lay,  dry-eyed,  her  whole  body  clenched, 
retched  with  sobs  that  would  not  come  up. 

Lillian  Drew's  words,  "He's  ten  thousand 
miles  above  you,"  sat  upon  her  pillow  and  cried 
into  her  ear.  She  had  seen  David's  superior 
quality  and  his  superior  training;  but  she  and 
he  had  both  been  thieves — they  were  both  strug- 
gling to  rise  clear  of  thievery.  This  common- 
ness of  experience  and  of  present  effort  had 
made  him  seem  very  near  to  her — very  attainable. 
It  was  a  bond  between  them,  a  bond  that  limited 
them  to  one  another.  And  she  had  steadfastly 
seen  a  closer  union  a  little  farther  ahead. 

But  now  he  was  not  a  thief.  The  bond  was 
snapped — he  was  ten  thousand  miles  above  her! 
Her  despair  magnified  him,  diminished  herself; 
and  when  she  contrasted  the  two  she  shrunk  to 
look  upon  the  figure  of  her  insignificance.  He 
must  see  her  as  such  a  pigmy — how  could  he  ever 
care  for  such  paltriness?  He  never  could.  He 
was  lost  to  her — utterly  lost ! 

All  that  afternoon  she  was  tortured  by  her 
hopelessness.  In  the  evening  she  became  pos- 
sessed by  an  undeniable  craving  to  see  David,  and 
she  went  to  David's  house  and  asked  him  to  walk 
with  her.  For  the  first  minute  after  they  were 
in  the  street  the  silence  of  constraint  was  between 
them.  David  could  but  know,  in  a  vague  way, 


340  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

of  Kate's  suff ering ;  he  was  pained,  shamed,  that 
he  was  its  cause. 

In  the  presence  of  her  suffering,  to  him,  with 
his  feeling  of  guilt,  all  else  seemed  trivial.  But 
there  was  one  matter  that  had  to  be  spoken  of. 
"You've  not  told  a  soul,  have  you,  what  you 
learned  this  afternoon?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  returned,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"I  was  sure  you  hadn't.  I  was  afraid  this 
afternoon  that  Rogers  had  overheard,  but  he 
didn't ;  either  you  talked  in  low  voices,  or  he  was 
asleep.  No  one  must  ever  know  the  truth — no 
one — and  especially  Rogers." 

"Why  him  especially?"  she  asked  mechanically. 

David  hesitated.  "Well,  you  see  one  thing 
that  makes  him  feel  close  to  me  is  that  he  be- 
lieves we  have  both  been  in  the  same  situation. 
In  a  way  that  has  made  us  brothers.  If  he  knew 
otherwise,  it  might  make  a  difference  to  him." 

"I  understand!"  said  Kate's  muffled  voice. 

She  asked  him  details  of  the  story  Lillian 
Drew  had  revealed,  and  since  she  already  knew 
so  much,  he  told  her — though  he  felt  her  interest 
was  not  in  what  he  told  her. 

At  length — he  had  yielded  himself  to  her  guid- 
ance— they  came  out  upon  the  dock  where  they 
had  talked  a  month  before.  She  had  wanted  to 
be  with  him  alone,  and  she  had  thought  of  no  bet- 
ter place.  Despite  the  wind's  being  filled  with 
needles,  they  took  their  stand  at  the  dock's  end. 

They  looked  out  at  the  river  that  writhed  and 
leaped  under  the  wind's  pricking — black,  save  be- 
neath the  arc  lamps  of  the  Williamsburg  bridge, 
where  the  rearing  little  wave-crests  gleamed, 
sunk,  and  gleamed  again.  For  several  minutes 


KATE'S  ORDEAL  341 

they  were  silent.  Then  the  choked  words  burst 
from  her: 

"I'm  not  fit  to  be  your  friend  1" 

"You  mustn't  let  this  afternoon  make  a  differ- 
ence, Kate,"  he  besought.  "It  doesn't  to  me. 
Fit  to  be  my  friend!  You  are — a  thousand 
times  over!  I  admire  you — I  honour  you — I'm 
proud  to  have  you  for  a  friend!" 

She  quickly  looked  up  at  him.  The  light  from 
the  bridge  lamps,  a  giant  string  of  glowing 
beads,  lay  upon  her  face.  In  it  there  gleamed 
the  sudden  embers  of  hope. 

"But  can  you  love  me — some  time?"  she  whis- 
pered. 

It  was  agony  to  him  to  shake  his  head. 

"I  knew  it!"  she  breathed  dully. 

When  he  saw  the  gray,  dead  despair  in  her 
face,  he  cried  out,  in  his  agony  and  abasement : 

"Don't  take  it  so,  Kate!  I'm  not  worthy  to 
be  the  cause  of  so  much  pain." 

She  looked  back  at  the  river ;  the  wind  had  set 
her  shivering,  but  she  did  not  know  she  was  cold. 
He  saw  that  she  was  thinking,  so  he  did  not 
speak.  After  several  minutes  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice : 

"Do  you  still  love  Miss  Chambers?" 

He  remained  silent. 

"Do  you?" 

"Yes." 

"As  much  as  I  love  you?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause.  When  she  next  spoke  she 
was  looking  him  tensely  in  the  face. 

"Would  she  love  you  if  she  knew  the  truth?" 

"I  shall  never  tell  her." 


342  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"But  would  she  love  you?"  she  repeated, 
fiercely.  She  clutched  his  arms  and  her  eyes 
blazed.  "She'd  better  not  I— I'd  kill  her  I" 

The  face  he  looked  down  into  was  that  of  a 
wild  animal.  He  gazed  at  it  with  fear  and  fas- 
cination. 

The  vindictive  fire  began  slowly  to  burn  lower, 
then,  at  a  puff,  it  was  out.  "No! — No!"  she 
cried,  convulsively,  gripping  his  arms  tighter. 
"I  wouldn't!  You  know  I  wouldn't!" 

The  face,  so  ragef ul  a  minute  before,  was  now 
twitching,  and  the  tears,  that  came  so  hard,  were 
trembling  on  her  lashes.  Her  eyes  embraced  his 
face  for  several  moments. 

"Ah,  David!"  she  cried,  and  her  words  were 
borne  upward  on  the  sobs  that  now  shook  her, 
"even  if  you  don't  love  me,  David — I  want  you 
to  be  happy!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   COMMAND   OF   LOYE 

MR.  ALLEN  put  down  his  teacup  and  gazed 
across   the   table   at   Helen.     Since   Mrs. 
Bos  worth  had  left  the  drawing-room,  ten  min- 
utes before,  they  had  been  arguing  the  old,  old 
point,  and  both  held  their  old  positions. 

"Then  you  will  never,  never  give  your  ideas 
up?"  he  sighed,  with  mock-seriousness  that  was 
wholly  serious. 

"Then  you  will  never,  never  give  your  ideas 
up  ?"  she  repeated  in  the  same  tone. 

"Never,  never." 

"Never,  never." 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  their  make-believe  lightness  fell  from 
them. 

"We  certainly  do  disagree  to  perfection!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Yes.  So  perfectly  that  the  more  I  think  of 
what  you've  asked  for,  the  more  inadvisable  does 
it  seem." 

"But  you'll  change  yet.  A  score  of  drawn 
battles  do  not  discourage  me  of  ultimate  vic- 
tory." 

"Nor  me,"  she  returned  quietly. 

Their  skirmish  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  a  footman.  Helen  took  the  card  from  the 
tray  and  glanced  at  it. 

343 


344  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Show  her  into  the  library  and  tell  her  I'll  join 
her  soon."  She  turned  back  to  Mr.  Allen. 
"Perhaps  you  remember  her — she  was  a  maid  at 
your  house  a  little  while — a  Miss  Morgan." 

"I  remember  her,  yes,"  he  said  indifferently. 

His  face  clouded;  he  made  an  effort  at  light- 
ness, but  his  words  were  sharp.  "Where,  oh 
where,  are  you  going  to  stop,  Helen!  You  are 
at  St.  Christopher's  twice  a  week,  not  counting 
frequent  extra  visits.  Two  days  ago,  so  you've 
just  told  me,  that  Mr.  Aldrich  was  here.  To- 
day, it's  this  girl.  And  the  week's  not  yet  over ! 
Don't  you  think  there  might  at  least  be  a  little 
moderation?" 

"You  mean,"  she  returned  quietly,  "that,  if 
we  were  married,  you  would  not  want  these 
friends  of  mine  to  come  to  your  house?" 

"I  should  not!  And  I  wish  I  knew  of  some 
way  to  snap  off  all  that  side  of  your  life !" 

She  regarded  him  meditatively.  "Since 
there's  so  much  about  me  you  don't  approve  of, 
I've  often  wondered  why  you  want  to  marry  me. 
Love  is  not  a  reason,  for  you  don't  love  me." 

The  answers  ran  through  his  head:  He  ad- 
mired her;  she  had  beauty,  brains,  social  stand- 
ing, social  tact,  and,  last  of  all  but  still  of  impor- 
tance, she  had  money — the  qualities  he  most  de- 
sired in  his  wife.  But  to  make  a  pretence  of 
love,  whatever  the  heart  may  be,  is  a  convention 
of  marriage — like  the  bride's  bouquet,  or  her 
train.  So  he  said: 

"But  I  do  love  you." 

"Oh,  no  you  don't — no  more  than  I  love  you." 

"Then  why  would  you  marry  me? — if  you  do." 


"Because  I  like  you;  because  I  admire  your 
qualities;  because  I  believe  my  life  would  be 
richer  and  fuller  and  more  efficient;  and  because 
I  should  hope  to  alter  certain  of  your  opinions." 

"Well,  I  don't  care  what  the  reasons  are — just 
so  they're  strong  enough,"  he  said  lightly.  He 
rose  and  held  out  his  hand ;  his  face  grew  serious ; 
his  voice  lowered.  "  I  must  be  going.  Four 
more  days,  remember — then  your  answer." 

After  he  had  gone  she  sat  for  several  minutes 
thinking  of  life  with  him,  toward  which  reason 
and  circumstances  pressed  her,  and  from  which, 
since  the  day  he  had  declared  himself,  she  had 
shrunk.  This  marriage  was  so  different  from 
the  marriage  of  her  dreams — a  marriage  of  love, 
of  common  ideals;  yet  in  it,  her  judgment  told 
her,  lay  the  best  use  of  her  life. 

She  dismissed  her  troubling  thoughts  with  a 
sigh  and  walked  back  to  the  library.  As  she 
entered  Kate  rose  from  a  high-backed  chair  be- 
hind the  great  square  library-table,  whose  pol- 
ished top  shone  with  the  light  from  the  chande- 
lier. Kate's  face  was  white,  the  mouth  was  a 
taut  line,  the  eyes  gleamed  feverishly  amid  the 
purpled  rings  of  wakeful  nights. 

Helen  came  smiling  across  the  noiseless  rug, 
her  hand  held  out. 

"I'm  very  happy  to  see  you,  Miss  Morgan." 

Kate  did  not  move.  She  allowed  Helen  to 
stand  a  moment,  hand  still  outheld,  while  her 
dark  eyes  blazed  into  Helen's  face.  Then  she 
abruptly  laid  her  hand  into  the  other,  and  as 
abruptly  withdrew  it. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 


346  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Certainly.     Won't  you  sit  down?" 

Kate  jerked  a  hand  toward  the  wide,  curtained 
doorway  through  which  Helen  had  entered. 

"Close  the  door." 

"Why?"  asked  Helen,  surprised. 

"Close  the  door,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  low, 
short  tone.  "Nobody  must  hear." 

The  forced  voice,  and  the  repressed  agitation 
of  Kate's  bearing,  startled  Helen.  She  drew  to- 
gether the  easy-running  doors,  and  returned  to 
the  table. 

Kate  jerked  her  hand  toward  the  open  plate- 
glass  door  that  led  into  the  conservatory. 

"And  that  door." 

"There's  no  one  in  there."  But  Helen  closed 
the  heavy  pane  of  glass. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,"  she  said,  when  this  was 
done,  taking  one  of  the  richly  carved  chairs  her- 
self. 

"No." 

Kate's  eyes  blazed  down  upon  Helen's  face; 
her  breath  came  and  went  rapidly,  with  a  wheez- 
ing sound;  her  hands,  on  the  luminous  table-top, 
were  clenched.  Her  whole  body  was  so  rigid 
that  it  trembled. 

The  colour  began  to  leave  Helen's  face.  "I'm 
waiting — go  on." 

Kate's  lips  suddenly  quivered  back  from  her 
teeth.  She  had  to  strike,  even  if  she  struck  un- 
justly. 

"People  like  you" — her  voice  was  harsh,  trem- 
ulous with  hate — "you  always  believe  the  worst 
of  a  man.  You  throw  him  aside — crush  him 
down — walk  on  him.  You  never  think  perhaps 
you've  made  a  mistake,  perhaps  he's  all  right. 


THE  COMMAND  OF  LOVE      347 

Oh,  no — you  never  think  good  of  a  man  if  you 
can  think  bad/'  She  leaned  over  the  corner  of 
the  table.  "I  hate  your  kind  of  people!  I  hate 
you!" 

"Is  this  the  thing  you  wanted  no  one  to  hear?" 
Helen  asked  quietly. 

Kate  slowly  straightened  up.  After  two  days 
and  two  nights — a  long,  fierce,  despairing  battle 
between  selfish  and  unselfish  love — she  had  de- 
cided she  must  come  here ;  but  now  her  rehearsed 
sentences  all  left  her.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
choking;  then  the  bald  words  dropped  out: 

"He's  not  a  thief — never  was  one." 

"Who?" 

"David  Aldrich." 

Helen  came  slowly  to  her  feet.  Her  face  was 
white,  her  eyes  were  wide.  For  a  moment  she 
did  not  speak — just  stared. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"He  did  not  take  the  money  from  the  Mis- 
sion." 

Helen  moved  from  the  corner  of  the  table,  her 
wide  eyes  never  leaving  Kate's  gleaming  ones, 
and  a  hand  clutched  Kate's  arm  and  tightened 
there. 

"Tell  me  all." 

"You  hurt  me." 

Helen  removed  her  hand. 

Kate  crept  closer  and  stared  up  into  her  face. 

"Does  it  make  any  difference  to  you?"  she 
breathed,  tensely. 

"Tell  me  all!" 

Kate  drew  back  a  pace,  and  leaned  upon  her 
clenched  hands.  "You  knew  Mr.  Morton,"  she 
said,  in  a  quick  strained  monotone.  "When  he 


348 

was  young,  he  lived  with  a  woman.  He  wrote 
her  a  lot  of  letters — love  letters.  She  turned  up 
again  a  few  months  before  he  died,  and  threat- 
ened to  show  the  letters  if  he  didn't  pay  her.  He 
had  no  money;  he  took  money  from  the  Mission 
and  paid  her.  Then  he  died.  His  guilt  was 
about  to  be  found  out.  But  David  Aldrich  said 
he  took  the  money  and  went  to  prison.  He  did 
it  because  he  thought  if  Mr.  Morton's  guilt  was 
found  out,  the  Mission  would  be  destroyed  and 
the  people  would  go  back  to  the  devil.  You 
know  the  rest.  That's  all." 

Helen  continued  motionless — silent. 

"It's  all  so,'*  Kate  went  on.  "The  woman  her- 
self told  me.  She  knew  the  truth.  She'd  been 
making  David  pay  her  to  keep  from  telling  that 
he  was  innocent.  She  told  me  before  him.  He 
had  to  admit  it." 

Kate  leaned  further  across  the  corner  of  the 
table.  "He  made  me  promise  never  to  tell." 
For  a  moment  of  dead  quiet  she  gazed  up  into 
Helen's  fixed  face.  "And  why  do  you  think  I've 
broken  my  promise?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
between  barely  parted  lips. 

Helen  rested  one  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair 
and  the  other  on  the  table.  She  trembled 
slightly,  but  she  did  not  reply. 

"Because" — there  was  a  little  quaver  in  Kate's 
voice — "I  thought  it  might  sometime  make  him 
happy." 

There  was  another  dead  silence,  during  which 
Kate  gazed  piercingly  into  Helen's  face. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  she  asked  sharply. 

Helen's  arms  tightened.  After  a  moment  her 
lips  moved. 


THE  COMMAND  OF  LOVE      349 

"You  love  him  yourself." 

"Me?— it's  a  lie.     I  don't!" 

Kate  moved  round  the  corner  of  the  table  and 
laid  a  fierce  hand  on  Helen's  arm. 

"Do  you  love  him?"  she  demanded. 

Silence.     "Thank  you — for  telling  me." 

Kate  laughed  a  low,  harsh  laugh,  and  flung 
Helen's  arm  from  her. 

"You! — you  think  you're  way  above  him, 
don't  you!  Well — you're  not!  You're  not  fit 
for  him!"  Her  eyes  leaped  with  flame.  "I  hate 
you!" 

Again  a  moment  of  silence.  A  tremor  ran 
through  Helen.  She  moved  forward,  and  her 
hands  reached  out  and  fell  upon  Kate's  shoul- 
ders. 

"I  love  you,"  she  whispered. 

Kate  shrunk  sharply  away.  Her  eyes  never 
leaving  Helen's  face,  she  backed  slowly  toward 
the  doors.  She  pushed  them  apart,  and  gazed 
at  Helen's  statued  figure.  Kate's  face  had  be- 
come ashen,  drawn.  After  a  moment  she 
slipped  through  the  doors  and  drew  them  to. 

As  the  doors  clicked,  Helen  swayed  into  a 
chair  beside  the  table,  and  her  head  fell  forward 
into  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ANOTHER  WORLD 

AfT  half -past  eight  o'clock  that  evening  David 
walked  up  the  broad  steps  of  the  Cham- 
bers's  house  and  rang  the  bell.  The  footman 
left  him  in  the  great  hall,  rich  with  carved  oak 
and  old  tapestries,  and  went  off  with  his  card. 
As  he  waited,  he  continued  to  wonder  at  the  tele- 
gram he  had  received  half  an  hour  before  from 
Helen,  which  had  merely  said,  "Can  you  not  call 
this  evening?"  Why  could  she  so  suddenly  de- 
sire to  see  him?  He  had  no  faintest  guess. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  footman  returned,  led 
him  up  the  stairway  and  directed  him  into  the 
library.  A  wood  fire  was  burning  in  the  broad 
fire-place,  and  on  a  divan  before  it  she  was  sit- 
ting, all  in  white. 

She  rose.  "Will  you  draw  the  doors,  please," 
her  voice  came  to  him. 

He  did  so,  and  went  toward  her  eagerly.  But 
his  steps  slowed.  Two  or  three  paces  from  her 
he  came  to  a  stop.  She  stood,  one  hand  on  the 
divan's  arm,  gazing  at  him  with  parted  lips,  and 
wide,  marvelling  eyes.  The  look  put  a  spell 
upon  him;  he  returned  it  silently,  with  a  grow- 
ing bewilderment. 

For  several  moments  her  whole  being  was 
brought  to  a  focus  in  the  awed  wonder  of  her 
face.  Then  her  breast  began  to  rise  and  fall,  her 

350 


ANOTHER  WORLD  851 

face  to  twitch,  her  eyes  to  flood  with  tears.  The 
tears  glinted  down  her  cheeks  and  fell  upon  her 
swelling  breast.  She  gave  them  no  heed,  but 
continued  to  hold  her  quivering  face  full  upon 
him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  whispered. 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  and  slowly  moved 
toward  him,  her  eyes  never  leaving  his  face.  He 
automatically  took  her  hands.  They  were  warm 
and  tight,  and  through  them  he  felt  her  whole 
body  trembling.  He  thrilled  under  their  pres- 
sure and  under  her  look — under  her  glorious, 
brimming  eyes. 

As  she  gazed  upon  him  his  last  five  years  ran 
through  her  mind — his  trial,  his  prison  life,  his 
struggle  for  a  foothold,  his  dishonoured  name. 
A  sob  broke  from  her,  and  upon  it  came  her 
low,  vibrant  voice — quavering,  awed: 

"It  was  God-like!" 

He  could  barely  ask,  "Whatf 

"What  you  did." 

He  could  not  find  a  word,  he  was  so  be- 
wildered, so  thrilled  by  her  gaze,  by  her  clinging 
hands. 

Her  tears  continued  to  drop  from  her  eyes  to 
her  heart.  There  was  a  momentary  silence,  then 
the  awed,  quavering  voice,  said  slowly: 

"You  never  took  the  money! — the  Mission 
money  I" 

For  a  space  he  was  utterly  dazed.  The  room 
swam ;  he  held  to  her  hands  for  support.  Slowly 
the  bewilderment  of  ignorance  passed  into  the 
greater  bewilderment  of  knowledge.  She  knew 
the  truth !  The  secret  of  his  life  that  he  had  hid- 


352  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

den  from  her,  thought  always  to  hide  from  her, 
she  had  found  out! 

He  realised  this,  but  no  more.  It  did  not  oc- 
cur to  him  even  to  wonder  how  she  had  learned— 
and  her  words,  "Miss  Morgan  told  me,"  lodged 
an  explanation  in  his  mind  that  would  waken 
after  a  while,  but  did  not  now  stir  a  single 
thought  regarding  Kate.  That  she  knew,  had 
burst  upon  him  so  suddenly  as  to  set  everything 
whirling  within  him — to  overwhelm,  outcrowd  all 
else.  He  sank  to  the  couch,  and  she  sank  to  a 
place  beside  him,  their  hands  and  eyes  still 
clasped. 

"Oh,  you  never  took  it!" 

The  voice  dripped  with  tears,  vibrated  with  a 
rising  note  of  triumph. 

"To  think  what  you've  gone  through!"  she 
marvelled  on,  quaveringly.  "Your  struggles — 
such  struggles! — and  everybody  believing  you 
dishonoured.  And  all  the  time,  you  being  this 
splendid  thing  that  you  are!"  A  great  sob 
surged  up. 

He  was  still  whirling  and  still  saw  her  face 
hazily.  But  his  faculties  were  coming  back. 
"What  I  did  was  not  active — it  was  merely  pas- 
sive," he  said. 

"To  achieve  by  suffering,  and  be  repaid  by  dis- 
honour— what  can  be  higher?" 

She  gazed  at  him,  and  gazed  at  him.  "And 
to  think  that  I  believed  you — you ! — guilty !  To 
think  that  I  never  sent  you  even  a  single  word 
while  you  were  in  prison!  How  I  drew  away 
from  you  when  I  found  you  sick  in  that  poor 
room!  How  since  then  I  have  tried  to  help  you 


ANOTHER  WORLD  353 

reform!  Ah,  the  irony  of  that  now!  And  the 
irony  of  my  proposing  to  you  to  pay  back  the 
money  you  never  took!" 

The  words,  the  voice,  had  reached  the  ears  of 
his  heart;  it  was  going  madly.  He  gazed  into 
her  glorious  face,  quivering,  tear-splashed,  into 
her  glorious,  swimming  eyes.  Even  in  his  dar- 
ingest  fancy  he  had  never  pictured  his  innocence 
affecting  her  so!  He  felt  himself  suddenly  a 
wild,  exultant  flame.  The  insuperables  were 
swept  out  of  the  world.  He  was  the  lover  he  had 
tried  seven  years  to  stifle. 

He  had  thought  the  words  would  never  be 
spoken.  But  they  came  out  boldly — with  a  rush. 

"I  love  you!" 

She  paled  slightly.  For  a  moment  she  looked 
wonderingly  into  his  eyes.  Her  head  slowly 
shook. 

"Ah — how  can  you!"  she  whispered.  "After 
I've  had  no  faith! — after  I've  treated  you  so!" 

She  tried  to  draw  away.  But  he  caught  her 
hands,  held  them  tight. 

"I  love  you!" 

Again  her  head  shook.  "I'm  .  .  .  not 
worthy." 

"But  you're  glad— I  did  not  take  it?" 

There  was  silence.  Her  eyes  held  steadfastly 
to  his. 

"It's  another  world!"  she  whispered. 

Her  glorious  self  looked  at  him,  leaned  toward 
him,  from  her  divine  eyes.  His  soul  reeled ;  awe 
descended  upon  him.  One  hand  loosed  itself  from 
hers,  and  weak,  tingling,  fearful,  crept  slowly 
about  her,  drew  her  toward  him.  She  came  at 


354  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

his  touch.  He  bent  down  breathless.  He  felt 
her  tremble  in  his  arm.  Her  face  was  white,  but 
it  did  not  waver;  her  eyes  glowed  into  his.  As 
their  lips  touched,  her  free  arm  slipped  about  his 
neck  and  she  shook  with  sobs. 

"Yes    .     .     .    another  world !"  she  breathed. 

When  he  had  finished  the  long  story  of  his 
acceptance  of  Morton's  guilt  and  of  what  had 
followed,  she  sat  gazing  at  him  with  her  look  of 
awe. 

"I  shall  never  stop  being  amazed  that  a  man 
could  do  a  thing  like  that,"  she  said.  "It  was 
wonderful  1" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said  slowly, 
"the  real  wonder  is  that  you  could  learn  to  love  a 
man  whom  you  believed  to  be  a  criminal."  For 
a  moment  he  looked  silently  into  her  eyes;  this 
great  thing  that  had  come  to  pass  still  seemed 
hardly  true.  "That's  the  wonder — Helen." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  her  name,  and 
he  spoke  it  with  a  fervent  hesitancy.  He  re- 
peated it  softly,  "Helen!" 

She  flushed.  "I  loved  you  long  before  I 
thought  you  were  guilty,"  she  said.  "It  seems 
that  I  have  always  loved  you." 

"Always!"  he  repeated,  amazed.  "Always? — 
just  as  I've  always  loved  you?" 

"Yes." 

For  a  space  he  was  lost  in  his  astonishment. 
"It  doesn't  seem  possible.  What  was  there  in 
me  to  make  you  love  me?" 

"I  loved  you  because  of  your  idealism,  because 
there  was  an  indefinable  something  in  you  that 


ANOTHER  WORLD  355 

was  good  and  great.  I  loved  you — Oh,  I  don't 
know  why  I  loved  you.  I  just  loved  you.  And 
how  I  felt  when  I  thought  you  had  taken  the 
money !  Oh,  David,  it  was " 

"Say  it  again!"  he  broke  in. 

"What?" 

"David." 

She  smiled.     "David." 

Her  face  became  serious.  "It  was  weeks  be- 
fore I  could  sleep.  I  tried  to  forget  you.  As 
the  years  passed  I  sometimes  thought  I  had;  but 
when  I  tried  to  listen  to  other  men  talk  of  love, 
I  knew  I  hadn't.  I  never  forgot  you.  I  was 
on  trial  with  you.  I  was  in  prison  with  you. 
Though  I  kept  away  from  you,  I  suffered  with 
you  when  you  were  sick  in  that  poor  little  room. 
I  have  searched  for  work  with  you.  I  have 
struggled  with  you  to  regain  place  in  the  world. 
Haven't  you  ever  felt  me  beside  you?" 

"I  have  always  thought  of  you  as  far  away 
from  me.  Of  you  here" — his  eyes  swept  the  li- 
brary— "in  this  life." 

The  glance  about  the  room  was  an  abrupt 
transition.  For  an  hour  or  more  he  had  been 
oblivious  to  all  things  save  herself  and  himself. 
Now  the  library's  material  richness  recalled  to 
him  the  circumstances  his  rapture  had  for  the 
time  annihilated — her  wealth,  her  social  position, 
his  poverty,  his  disgrace.  Slowly  these  forced 
upon  him  one  relentless  fact.  His  face  became 
grave,  then  pale. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

"After  all,  we  are  as  inexorably  separated  as 
ever,"  he  said.  "We  can  be  merely  friends." 


356  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"Why?" 

"I'm  poor — without  position  in  life — covered 
with  dishonour." 

"It's  your  soul  that  I  love,"  she  said.  "It's 
rich,  and  full  of  honour." 

Her  look,  the  ring  in  her  voice,  made  him  catch 
his  breath. 

"What! — you  don't  mean  you'd  marry  me — as 
I  am!" 

"Yes." 

Wild  joy  sprang  up  within  him.  But  he 
choked  it  down. 

"No — No!  You  couldn't.  You  haven't 
thought.  You  couldn't  give  up  all  the  richness 
of  your  life,  all  your  friends,  for  my  poverty,  my 
friendlessness.  And  this  isn't  all — nor  the 
worst.  There's  my  disgrace."  He  paused  a 
moment  before  the  great  fact  that  must  always 
be  a  barrier  between  them.  "Do  you  realise, 
Helen,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  can  never  clear  my- 
self. To  do  that  would  be  to  destroy  the  people 
of  St.  Christopher's.  I  can  never  do  that.  I 
never  will." 

She  was  thoughtful  for  several  moments. 
"No,  you  never  can,"  she  said  slowly.  Then  a 
glow  came  into  her  face,  and  she  added  suddenly 
in  a  tone  that  vibrated  through  him: 

"But  I  shall  marry  you  anyhow!" 

He  caught  her  hands.  "God  bless  you!"  he 
said  huskily. 

He  shook  his  head  slowly,  v/ith  pale  resolu- 
tion. "But  no.  I  love  you  too  much,  honour 
you  too  much,  to  drag  you  from  your  place — to 
let  you  marry  a  criminal!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

AS  LOVE  APPORTIONS 

AFTER  David  had  gone  Helen  sat  gazing 
into  the  rich  romance  of  the  glowing  logs, 
reproached  by  the  remembrance  of  her  treatment 
of  David,  awed  by  his  long  sacrifice,  thrilled  with 
love  and  the  knowledge  of  his  innocence.  Her 
imagination  showed  her  scenes  of  David's  trial, 
of  his  prison  life,  of  his  struggles  to  regain  place 
in  the  world,  and  she  cried  softly  as  she  looked 
upon  him  amid  these  travails.  That  she  had  not 
believed  in  him  despite  appearance  and  his  own 
declaration,  she  regarded  as  evidence  of  her 
weakness,  and  she  told  herself  that  her  five  years 
of  suffering  were  too  light  a  punishment  for  her 
lack  of  faith.  She  should  have  learned  his  in- 
nocence— and  lost  him! 

Presently  her  mind,  rehearsing  the  evening, 
came  to  David's  statement  that,  for  St.  Christo- 
pher's sake,  he  must  always  remain  a  guilty  man. 
She  paused  before  the  declaration.  Yes,  he  was 
right.  As  she  admitted  this  a  calm  fell  upon 
her,  and  she  saw,  as  she  had  not  seen  before,  the 
distance  that  lay  between  them.  He  could  not 
come  to  her;  he  was  bound  where  he  was.  If 
they  came  together,  she  must  go  to  him. 

Could  she  go?  She  loved  the  ease  and  beauty 
which  surrounded  her;  and  this  love  now  pointed 
out  that  going  to  him  meant  resigning  all  the 

357 


358  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

comforts  of  her  father's  house,  all  things  that 
thus  far  had  comprised  her  life.  And  not  alone 
resigning  them,  but  substituting  for  them  the 
cramped,  mean  surroundings  of  a  poor  man. 
Was  the  love  of  a  poor  man  sufficient  to  balance, 
and  balance  for  the  rest  of  fife,  the  good  things 
that  would  be  given  up  ? 

She  had  said  to  David  with  ringing  joy,  "I 
shall  marry  you  anyhow!" — and  now,  with  the 
same  glow  of  the  soul,  she  swept  her  present  life 
out  of  consideration.  Yes,  she  could  give  it  up ! 
But  following  immediately  upon  the  impulse  of 
renunciation  came  the  realisation  that  David  was 
not  only  a  poor  man — he  was,  and  must  be  al- 
ways, to  the  rest  of  the  world  a  criminal.  Was 
her  love  strong  enough,  and  was  she  strong 
enough,  to  share  a  criminal's  dishonour  and 
struggles — even  though  she  knew  him  to  be 
guiltless  ? 

While  this  question  was  asking  itself  her 
father  entered,  and  with  him  her  Aunt  Caroline 
— in  an  ermine-lined  opera  cloak  and  a  rustling 
cream-lace  gown,  about  her  plump  throat  a  col- 
lar of  pearls  and  in  her  gray  hair  a  constellation 
of  diamonds. 

"Why,  Helen,  sitting  here  all  alone,  and  at  one 
o'clock!"  her  aunt  cried.  "Well,  at  any  rate  it 
means  you're  feeling  better."  Helen  had  had 
her  dinner  brought  to  her  sitting-room,  and  had 
excused  herself  from  the  opera  on  the  plea  of  in- 
disposition. 

Helen  returned  the  kiss  with  which  her  aunt, 
bending  over,  lightly  touched  her  cheek.  She 
would  have  preferred  to  say  nothing  of  David's 
visit,  but  she  knew  her  aunt,  who  had  charge  of 


AS  LOVE  APPORTIONS         359 

the  servants,  would  doubtless  learn  of  it  on  the 
morrow  from  the  housekeeper. 

"But  I  haven't  been  alone  the  whole  evening," 
she  returned  quietly.  "Mr.  Aldrich  called." 

Mrs.  Bosworth  hopelessly  lifted  her  shoulders, 
whose  fulness  her  fifty-odd  years  had  not  im- 
paired. "What'll  your  help-the-poor  ideas  make 
you  do  next!"  she  cried.  "Think  of  giving  up 
Melba  to  be  bored  a  whole  evening  by  an  East 
Side  protege!  And  such  a  lot  of  your  friends 
came  to  our  box,  too.  Mr.  Allen  was  very  dis- 
appointed." 

"It  seems  to  me,  too,  Helen,"  said  her  father 
who  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  "that  you're 
carrying  your  philanthropy  a  little  too  far  in 
having  your  brands-snatched-from-the-burning 
so  much  at  the  house." 

Helen  did  not  answer. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  must  find  some  satisfac- 
tion in  it  or  you  wouldn't  do  it,"  Mrs.  Bosworth 
sighed.  "Good  night,  dear." 

They  kissed  again,  perfunctorily.  Helen 
liked  her  aunt  in  that  moderate  way  in  which 
we  all  like  good-natured,  fate-made  intimates 
whose  interests  touch  our  own  at  few  points. 
And  Mrs.  Bosworth's  complacent  good-nature 
there  was  no  denying — even  if  her  interest  did 
pause,  way-worn,  after  it  had  journeyed  out  as 
far  as  those  remote  people  who  had  only  twenty- 
five  thousand  a  year. 

"Don't  sit  too  long,"  said  her  father,  bending 
down.  During  the  last  four  weeks  she  had  tried 
to  wear  before  her  father  an  unchanged  manner. 
So  she  now  met  his  lips  with  her  own.  "Only  a 
few  minutes  longer;  good  night,"  she  said. 


360  ,TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

When  they  had  gone  her  gaze  returned  to  the 
fire,  and  her  mind  gathered  about  her  father. 
Since  she  had  learned  he  was  a  great  highway- 
man whose  plunderings  were  so  large  as  to  be 
respectable,  her  days  and  nights  had  been  filled 
with  thoughts  of  him,  and  of  her  relation  to  him 
and  his  fortune.  She  realised  that  if  he  were 
seen  by  the  world  as  he  actually  was,  and  if  the 
world  had  the  same  courage  to  condemn  large 
thefts  that  it  had  to  condemn  small  thefts,  he 
would  be  dishonoured  far  below  David.  She 
realised  that  his  great  fortune  was  founded  on 
theft,  that  the  food  she  ate,  the  dresses  she  wore, 
the  house  she  lived  in,  were  paid  for  with  money 
that  was  rightly  others! 

What  should  she  do? — for  almost  a  month  that 
question  had  hardly  left  her:  Should  she  beg 
her  father  to  change  his  business  ways,  and  to 
restore  his  money  to  whom  he  had  defrauded? 
She  knew  the  power  was  not  in  her,  nor  any 
other,  to  change  him.  Since  he  was  going  to 
continue  gathering  in  other  people's  money  with 
his  own,  should  she  keep  silent  and  remain  by 
him,  and  see  that  the  money  was  spent  in  service 
of  the  people?  Or  should  she,  refusing  to  live 
on  dishonest  income,  withdraw  from  his  house 
and  shape  her  own  life? 

She  came  out  of  her  thoughts  with  a  start  to 
find  herself  shivering,  the  bronze  clock  on  the 
mantel  pointing  at  two,  and  the  glowing  romance 
in  the  fire-place  cooled  to  gray  ashes.  When  she 
reached  her  sitting-room  she  remembered  a  yel- 
low photograph  of  David  that  on  the  day  he  had 
confessed  his  guilt  she  had  tried  to  burn,  and 


AS  LOVE  APPORTIONS         361 

which  she  had  since  tried  to  forget,  but  which  she 
had  often  taken  from  its  hiding-place  and  gazed 
at  in  pained  wonderment.  She  took  this  out  of 
the  drawer  of  her  writing  desk,  went  into  her  bed- 
room and  set  it  upon  the  reading-table  beside  her 
bed.  After  preparing  herself  for  sleep  she  lit 
the  candles  on  the  table,  turned  out  the  gas,  and 
lying  with  her  head  high  up  on  the  pillows  she 
looked  with  glowing  eyes  on  the  open  boyish 
face.  After  a  time  she  reached  a  white  arm  for 
the  picture,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  its  yellowed  lips, 
then  snuffed  the  candle  and  held  the  picture 
against  her  heart;  and,  tying  so,  she  presently 
drifted  softly  away  into  sleep. 

Paradise  walked  home  with  David  that  night. 
He  did  not  think  of  the  barrier  that  stood  be- 
tween Helen  and  him — that  must  always  keep 
them  apart  despite  her  declaration  that  she  would 
marry  him.  He  thought  only  of  her  love.  This 
fact  was  so  supremely  large  that  it  had  filled 
his  present.  At  times  he  thrilled  with  awe,  as 
though  God  had  descended  and  were  walking  at 
his  side.  Again  he  could  barely  hold  down  the 
eruptive  cries  of  his  exultation;  he  clenched  his 
hands,  and  tensed  his  arms,  and  flung  his  face 
up  at  the  far,  white  stars. 

He  strode  through  the  night,  too  excited  to 
think  of  anything  but  Helen  and  himself.  He 
and  she — they  were  the  world.  But  presently, 
after  hours  of  walking,  his  thoughts  went  to 
people  without  the  walls  of  his  paradise.  He 
thought  of  Rogers — and  the  misery  of  Rogers 
was  an  accusation  against  his  joy.  He  had 
gained  everything — Rogers  had  lost  everything. 


362  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  he  tried  to  sub- 
due his  happiness  by  thinking  of  Rogers's  fail- 
ure and  hopelessness. 

And  the  thought  of  Kate  shot  through  him  a 
great  jagged  pain.  He  realised  how  fierce  must 
have  been  the  struggle  that  had  preceded  her  call 
on  Helen;  he  realised  that  he  owed  his  paradise 
to  the  apotheosis  of  her  love ;  and  he  realised,  too, 
how  utterly  beyond  his  power  it  was  to  make  her 
any  repayment. 

When,  toward  three  o'clock,  he  reached  his 
house,  he  was  surprised  to  see  that  a  light  burned 
in  Roger's  office.  The  office  door  was  unlocked, 
and  he  entered.  Beside  her  desk  stood  Kate, 
suddenly  risen,  and  on  the  desk's  arm  lay  a  few 
note-books,  a  dictionary  and  a  pair  of  sateen 
sleeve-protectors. 

"I've  come  for  my  things — I've  got  a  new 
job,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  in  a  dry  unnatural 
voice. 

David  saw  instantly  through  her  pitiful  craft 
— knew  instantly  how  long  she  had  been  waiting 
there.  He  filled  tinglingly  with  a  quick  rush  of 
pity  and  pain  and  tenderness.  He  wanted  to 
thank  her,  but  he  felt  the  emptiness  of  words, 
and  dared  not.  So,  confusedly,  awkwardly,  he 
stood  looking  at  the  white  face. 

Her  eyes  holding  to  his  like  a  magnetic  needle, 
she  moved  across  the  room,  paused  a  pace  away, 
and  stared,  hardly  breathing,  up  at  him.  Her 
burning,  questioning  eyes,  ringed  with  their  pur- 
ple misery,  forced  from  him  a  low  cry  of  pain. 

"Oh,  Kate!— Kate!" 

She  trembled  slightly  at  his  voice.  "You've 
seen  her!"  she  whispered. 


AS  LOVE  APPORTIONS         363 

"Yes." 

He  felt  tears  scalding  his  eyes.  Suddenly  he 
caught  her  hands  and  broken  words  leaped  from 
his  lips. 

"What  a  wonderful  soul  you  are! — I  can't 
speak  my  thanks,  but  in  my  heart — " 

She  jerked  her  hands  away  and  drew  back. 
"Don't!"  she  gasped.  "Don't!" 

He  hated  himself  for  the  suffering  he  was 
causing  her — for  his  helplessness  to  thank  her,  to 
say  the  thing  in  his  heart. 

She  continued  to  stare  up  at  him  with  the  same 
quivering  tensity.  After  a  moment  she  asked 
in  a  dry  whisper: 

"And  she  loves  you?" 

"Yes." 

A  sharp  moan  escaped  her.  She  put  an  un- 
steady hand  out  and  caught  her  desk,  and  the 
edge  of  David's  vision  saw  how  the  fingers 
clenched  the  wood. 

"I  knew  it — from  the  way  she  acted,"  she  said 
mechanically. 

For  several  moments  more  she  looked  up  at 
him,  her  face  as  pale  as  death.  Then  she  turned 
and,  thoughtless  of  her  belongings,  walked 
toward  the  door,  a  thin,  unsteady  figure.  As 
she  reached  for  the  knob  he  sprang  across  the 
room  with  a  cry  and  caught  her  outstretched 
hand. 

"Oh,  Kate — forgive  me! — I  hate  myself! — 
Forgive  me!" 

Her  hand  tightened  spasmodically  on  his,  her 
body  swayed,  her  eyes  flamed  up  into  his.  "Oh, 
David!"  burst  from  her  in  a  low  moan  of  infinite 
pain  and  loss.  For  a  moment  she  was  all  a-trem- 


364  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ble.  Then  she  clenched  herself  in  an  effort  at 
self-control,  answered  him  with  a  slow  nod,  and 
dropping  her  head  turned  and  went  through  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   PARTIAL  RELEASE 

WHEN  David,  after  leaving  Helen  at  the 
end  of  the  next  afternoon,  sat  down  to 
his  early  dinner  in  the  almost  empty  Pan-Ameri- 
can, the  Mayor  came  swaying  toward  him.  Dur- 
ing the  last  two  weeks  the  Mayor  had  been  daily 
seeking  David  for  sympathy  over  his  marriage, 
or  advice  upon  his  wedding  clothes  and  upon  ar- 
rangements for  the  ceremony  that  was  to  make 
his  life  a  joyless  waste.  He  took  an  opposite 
chair,  sighed  heavily  and  regarded  David  in 
steady  gloom. 

"D'you  realise,  friend,"  he  burst  out,  "that  it's 
only  one  day  more?  Twenty- four  hours  from 
tonight  at  nine  o'clock!  Only  one  day  more  o' 
life !  If  God  had  to  make  me,  why  didn't  he  put 
a  little  sense  into  me — that's  what  I'd  like  to 
know!" 

He  shook  his  head  despairingly.  But  after  a 
few  moments  his  face  began  to  lighten  and  he 
leaned  across  the  table.  "But  anyhow,  friend, 
don't  you  think  my  weddin'  clothes  is  just  about 
proper!" 

David  agreed  they  were,  and  in  the  discussion 
of  the  marriage  garments  the  Mayor  forgot  the 
marriage  and  became  quite  happy.  From  gar- 
ments he  passed  on  to  a  description  of  the  prepa- 

365 


366  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ration  for  the  wedding  festivities,  which  were  to 
be  held  in  the  Liberty  Assembly  Hall. 

He  leaned  proudly  back  and  glowed  on  David. 
"It's  goin'  to  be  the  swellest  ever,"  he  said,  with 
a  magnificent  wave  of  his  right  hand.  "It's 
goin'  to  have  every  weddin'  that  was  ever  pulled 
off  in  this  part  o'  town,  simply  skinned  to  death 
— yes,  sir,  simply  faded  to  nothin'." 

He  flamed  upward  into  the  very  incandescence 
of  pride.  But  on  the  morrow  his  pride  was 
ashes.  Never  did  another  bridegroom  have  so 
severe  an  attack  of  the  bridegroom's  disease  as 
did  the  Mayor.  All  the  afternoon  he  kept  David 
beside  him,  and  once  when  David  tried  to  leave 
for  a  few  minutes  the  Mayor  frantically  caught 
his  arm  and  would  not  let  him  go.  The  Mayor 
was  too  agitated  to  sit  still,  too  nerveless  to  move 
about,  too  panic-stricken  to  talk  or  to  listen  to 
David;  and  when,  after  dinner,  it  came  to  put- 
ting on  his  wedding  raiment,  he  was  in  such  a 
funk  that  David  had  to  dress  him.  He  had  but 
one  coherent  idea,  and  that  he  often  expressed, 
his  glassy,  fearful  eyes  appealingly  on  David, 
with  a  long-drawn  moan:  "Friend,  ain't  it  hell!" 

When  it  came  time  to  leave,  the  Mayor  col- 
lapsed into  a  chair  and  glared  defiantly  at  David. 
"I  ain't  goin'  to  go!"  he  announced  in  a  tremu- 
lous roar.  But  David,  by  the  use  of  force  and 
dire  pictures,  finally  got  him  into  the  dressing- 
room  of  the  Liberty  Assembly  Hall  where  he  was 
to  meet  Miss  Becker.  She  was  already  there, 
and  she  came  toward  him  with  a  blushing  smile. 
He  stood  motionless,  his  tongue  wet  his  lips,  a 
hand  felt  his  throat.  He  gazed  at  the  white 


A  PARTIAL  RELEASE          367 

gown  and  at  the  veil  as  a  condemned  man  at  the 
noose.  He  put  a  limp,  fumbling  hand  into  hers. 
"Howdy  do,  Carrie,"  he  said  huskily. 

Some  men  are  cowards  till  the  battle  starts, 
then  are  heroes.  When  the  Mayor  and  his  tri- 
umphant bride,  radiant  on  his  arm,  paused  a  mo- 
ment outside  the  hall  door  for  the  march  to  be- 
gin, he  was  still  the  agitated  craven.  But  when 
he  saw  within  the  hall  the  scores  of  gorgeous 
guests,  and  realised  that  he  was  the  chief  figure 
in  this  pageant,  his  spirit  and  savoir-faire  flowed 
back  into  him;  and  when  Professor  Bachmann's 
orchestra  struck  into  the  wedding-march  he 
stepped  magnificently  forward,  throwing  to  right 
and  left  ruddy,  benign  smiles.  He  bore  himself 
grandly  through  the  ceremony;  he  started  the 
dancing  by  leading  the  grand  march  with  Mrs. 
Hoffman  in  his  most  magnificent  manner ;  and  at 
the  wedding  supper,  which  was  served  in  an  ad- 
joining room,  he  beamingly  responded  to  the 
calls  for  a  speech  with  phrases  and  flourishes  that 
even  he  had  never  before  equalled. 

At  the  end  of  the  supper  the  party  resumed 
dancing,  and  the  Mayor  had  a  chance  to  pause  a 
moment  beside  David.  He  swept  a  huge,  white- 
gloved  hand  gracefully  about  the  room,  and  de- 
manded in  an  exultant  whisper: 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  friend,  that  this  was  goin' 
to  be  the  swellest  weddin'  that  ever  happened? 
Well,  ain't  it?" 

"It  certainly  is,"  agreed  David. 

The  Mayor  tapped  David's  shirt-front  with  his 
forefinger.  "It  certainly  is  the  real  thing, 
friend.  Nothin'  cheap-skate  about  this,  let  me 


368  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

tell  you.  Everything  is  just  so.  Why,  did  you 
notice  even  the  waiters  wore  white  gloves  ?  Yes, 
sir — when  I  get  married,  it's  done  right !" 

He  leaned  to  within  a  few  confidential  inches 
of  David's  ear.  "And  say — have  you  sized  up 
Carrie?  Ain't  she  simply  It!  Huh,  she  makes 
every  other  woman  in  this  bunch  look  like  a  has- 
been!" 

A  little  later,  during  a  lull  in  the  dancing,  the 
Mayor  and  his  bride,  who  had  quietly  withdrawn, 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  hall, 
hatted  and  wrapped. 

"Good-bye!"  boomed  the  Mayor's  mighty 
voice.  "Same  luck  to  you  all!" 

Mrs.  Hoffman's  finger-tips  flung  a  kiss  from 
her  blushing  lips  to  the  guests,  and  the  Mayor's 
hand  gathered  a  kiss  from  amid  his  own  glowing 
face  and  bestowed  it  likewise.  The  guests  rushed 
forward,  but  the  couple  went  down  the  stairs  in 
a  flurry,  into  a  waiting  carriage,  and  were  gone. 

The  dancing  continued  till  early  workmen  be- 
gan to  clatter  through  the  streets — for  in  the 
supper-room  was  enough  cold  meats  and  cake 
and  punch  and  ices  to  gorge  the  guests  for  a 
week,  and  Professor  Bachmann  has  been  paid  to 
keep  his  musicians  going  so  long  as  a  dancer  re- 
mained on  the  floor.  But  David  slipped  away 
soon  after  the  bride  and  groom. 

When  he  got  home  he  found  Kate  Morgan  sit- 
ting by  Rogers's  side.  He  looked  at  her  in  con- 
straint, and  she  at  him — and  it  was  a  very  un- 
comfortable moment  till  Rogers  announced: 

"She's  going  with  me." 

David  turned  to  his  friend.  There  was  an  ex- 
cited glow  in  Rogers's  dark  eyes. 


A  PARTIAL  RELEASE          369 

"What?"  David  asked. 

"She's  going  with  me — to  Colorado." 

David  stared  at  him,  and  then  at  Kate,  who 
nodded.  "Oh,  I  see!"  he  said. 

Kate's  features  tightened,  and  she  looked  at 
him  defiantly.  "It  isn't  what  you  think.  I  of- 
fered to  marry  him,  but  he  wouldn't  let  me." 

"What,  let  a  woman  marry  a  wreck  like  me  I" 
exclaimed  Rogers.  "No,  she's  going  as  a  nurse. 
I've  begged  her  not  to  go,  but  she  insists." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  Kate  asked,  still  with  her 
straight,  defiant  look  full  on  David.  "My 
father's  now  in  an  asylum.  Mr.  Rogers  needs 
me :  he'll  be  lonely — he  ought  to  have  someone  to 
take  care  of  him.  I  know  something  about  nurs- 
ing. Why  shouldn't  I?" 

David  looked  at  her  slight,  rigidly  erect  figure, 
standing  with  one  hand  on  the  back  of  Rogers's 
chair,  and  tried  to  find  words  for  the  feelings 
that  rushed  up  from  his  heart.  But  before  he 
could  speak  she  said  abruptly,  "Good  night," 
and,  very  pale,  marched  past  David  and  out  of 
the  room. 

The  following  afternoon,  as  Davivd  was  help- 
ing Rogers  with  the  last  of  the  packing  for  the 
western  trip,  which  was  to  be  begun  that  night, 
a  messenger  brought  him  a  letter.  He  looked  at 
the  "St.  John's  Hospital "  printed  in  one  corner 
of  the  envelope  in  some  surprise  before  he  opened 
the  letter.  It  read : 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  — 

There  has  just  been  brought  here,  fatally  injured 
from  being  run  down  by  an  express  wagon,  a  woman 
whose  name  seems  to  be  Lillian  Drew,  judging  from  a 


370  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

packet  of  old  letters  found  on  her  person.  As  your 
address  was  the  only  one  about  her,  I  am  sending  you 
this  notice  on  the  possibility  that  you  may  be  an  inter- 
ested party." 

The  note  was  signed  "James  Barnes,  House 
Surgeon."  David's  first  thought  was,  Morton's 
letters  have  been  read  and  the  secret  has  begun 
to  come  out!  For  a  space  he  did  not  know 
whether  this  was  a  hope  or  a  fear.  On  the  way 
to  the  hospital  it  was  of  the  glory  that  would 
follow  this  disclosure,  and  not  of  the  disaster, 
that  he  thought.  He  saw  his  name  cleared,  him- 
self winning  his  way  unhampered  into  honour, 
free  to  marry  Helen — he  saw  a  long  stretch  of 
happiness  in  work  and  in  love. 

On  reaching  the  hospital  he  was  led  to  a  small 
room  adjoining  the  operating-room.  Here  he 
found  Dr.  Barnes,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty- 
five,  shirt  sleeves  rolled  above  his  elbows,  aproned 
in  a  rubber  sheet,  head  swathed  in  gauze.  He 
was  beginning  to  wash  his  hands  at  an  iron  sink. 

"Are  you  a  near  friend  or  relative?"  Dr. 
Barnes  asked  after  David  had  introduced  him- 
self. 

"An  acquaintance,"  David  answered. 

"Then  I  can  break  the  news  point-blank.  She 
died  a  few  minutes  ago." 

David  hardly  knew  what  the  young  surgeon 
was  saying — his  mind  was  all  on  the  letters. 

"It's  the  old,  old  story,"  added  the  surgeon, 
with  a  shrug.  "Intoxicated — got  in  the  way  of 
a  truck — a  cracked  skull.  I've  been  trying  to  do 
what  I  could  for  her" — he  nodded  toward  the 
open  door  of  the  operating-room. — "but  she  died 
under  the  operation." 


A  PARTIAL  RELEASE          371 

"In  your  note,"  David  said  as  steadily  as  he 
could,  "you  mentioned  some  letters." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  wanted  to  find  the  address  of 
friends,  so  I  read  a  few  of  them."  He  smiled  at 
David  as  he  rubbed  a  cake  of  yellow  soap  about 
in  his  hands. 

David  leaned  heavily  against  a  window-sill. 
His  mind  was  reeling. 

"They  were  from  relatives?"  he  forced  from 
his  lips. 

The  surgeon  gave  a  short  laugh.  "Hardly! 
They  were  love  letters — and  warm  ones,  too! 
All  about  twenty  years  old.  Queer,  wasn't  it." 

He  rinsed  the  soap  from  his  arms  and  began 
to  rub  them  with  a  white  powder.  "But  I  got 
nothing  out  of  them.  They  were  merely  signed 
Thil.' ' 

David's  control  returned  to  him,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  a  tremendous  relief.  "I  suppose," 
he  said,  "there's  no  objection  to  my  claiming  and 
taking  the  letters." 

"We  usually  turn  anything  found  on  a  body 
over  to  the  relatives  or  friends.  But  pardon  me 
— I  don't  know  that  you're  the  proper  person." 

"There's  no  one  else  to  claim  them.  I'm  per- 
fectly willing  to  give  you  security  for  them." 

"Oh,  I  guess  it'll  be  all  right.  They're  merely 
a  package  of  old  letters." 

He  walked  over  to  where  several  coats  were 
hanging,  and  pointed  a  scoured  hand  at  one. 
"I've  just  washed  up  for  another  operation,  so  I 
can't  take  them  out  for  you.  You'll  find  them 
in  the  inside  pocket." 

David  transferred  the  yellow  packet  to  the  in- 
side pocket  of  his  own  coat.  He  had  thanked 


372  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

the  surgeon  and  said  good-bye,  when  the  fear 
seized  him  that  perhaps  the  dead  woman  might 
after  all  not  be  Lillian  Drew.  He  turned  back 
and  asked  if  he  might  see  the  body.  The  sur- 
geon led  him  into  the  operating-room  where  two 
attendants  were  starting  to  push  out  a  wheeled 
operating-table,  burdened  with  a  sheeted  figure. 
The  surgeon  stopped  them,  and  at  his  order  a 
nurse  drew  back  the  sheet  from  the  head.  David 
gave  a  single  glance  at  the  face.  His  fear  left 
him. 

With  the  letters  buttoned  inside  his  coat  he  left 
the  hospital  and  set  out  for  Helen's,  on  whom  he 
had  promised  to  call  that  afternoon.  At  this 
moment  he  had  not  for  Lillian  Drew  that  under- 
standing, sympathy  even,  which  he  was  later  to 
attain;  he  did  not  then,  consider  that  she,  too, 
might  have  had  a  very  different  ending  had  her 
beginning  been  more  fortunately  inspired.  For 
such  a  sympathy  he  was  too  dazed  by  the  narrow- 
ness of  his  escape  from  vindication  and  of  the 
Mission's  from  destruction.  Had  the  letters 
been  signed  by  Morton's  full  name,  then  the 
house  surgeon,  in  trying  to  learn  who  Philip 
Morton  was,  would  certainly  have  started  a  scan- 
dal there  would  have  been  no  stopping.  But 
now  his  secret  was  safe:  Lillian  Drew  would 
menace  him  no  more,  and  the  two  women  who 
knew  his  story  would  keep  it  forever  locked  in 
their  hearts. 

He  chanced  to  reach  the  Chambers's  home  at 
the  same  moment  as  Mr.  Chambers,  who  bowed 
coldly  and  passed  upstairs.  As  Mr.  Chambers 
went  by  the  drawing-room  door  he  saw  Helen 


A  PARTIAL  RELEASE          373 

and  Mr.  Allen  at  the  tea-table.     He  entered  and 
shook  hands  cordially  with  Mr.  Allen. 

"How  are  you,  Allen?"  he  said.  "But  I  just 
stopped  for  a  second.  I'll  try  and  see  you  before 
you  go." 

At  this  moment  a  footman  handed  Helen 
David's  card.  "Don't  you  think,  Helen,"  her 
father  asked  quietly,  "that  you're  letting  that  fel- 
low make  himself  very  much  of  a  bore?"  With- 
out waiting  for  an  answer  he  passed  out. 

"Will  you  show  Mr.  Aldrich  up,"  Helen  said 
to  the  waiting  footman.  Mr.  Allen  had  begun, 
before  her  father's  entrance,  to  draw  near  the 
question  he  had  come  to  put.  She  shrunk  from 
answering  it,  so  David's  coming  was  doubly  wel- 
come. 

"A  minute,  please,"  Mr.  Allen  called  to  the 
servant.  "Now,  Helen,  is  this  treating  me  fair?" 
he  demanded  in  a  whisper.  "You  know  I  want 
to  see  you.  Can't  you  send  down  word  that 
you're  engaged?" 

"He's  in  the  house — I'm  here — I  can't  deny 
him,"  she  said  rapidly.  "Besides,  for  a  long 
while  I've  been  wanting  you  to  meet  him.  Show 
him  up,  Mitchell." 

"Well,  if  I  must  meet  him,  I  suppose  I  must," 
Allen  said  with  a  shrug,  sharpness  cutting 
through  his  even  tone.  "But  I  warn  you,  Helen 
— I'm  going  to  outstay  him." 

A  moment  later  David  entered  the  room.  He 
was  crossing  eagerly  with  a  hand  held  out  to 
Helen,  when  he  saw  Allen  beside  the  tea-table. 
He  suddenly  paused.  Allen  slowly  rose,  and  for 
a  space  the  two  men  stared  at  each  other. 


374  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"So,"  Allen  said,  with  slow  distinctness, 
"You're  Mr.  David  Aldrich?" 

David  went  pale.  He  knew,  from  what  Helen 
had  told  him  of  Allen,  that  he  was  in  the  power 
of  a  man  whose  ideas  of  justice  and  duty  made 
him  merciless.  For  a  moment  David  had,  as  on 
the  night  Allen  had  forced  him  to  unmask,  a 
glimpse  of  the  inside  of  a  cell. 

"I  am,"  he  said. 

Helen  had  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  sur- 
prise. "What — you  know  each  other?" 

David  turned  to  her.  "You  remember  I  told 
you  that  about  a  year  ago  I  broke  into  a  man's 
house.  It  was  his  house." 

"What!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  your  protege  is  a  thief!" 

There  was  a  vibration  of  triumph  in  Allen's 
voice.  An  old  idea  had  flashed  back  upon  him. 
He  had  often  thought  that  if  he  could,  by  some 
striking  example,  show  Helen  the  futility  of  her 
work,  show  her  that  the  people  whom  she  thought 
were  improving  were  really  deceiving  her,  then 
her  belief  in  her  efforts  would  be  shattered  and 
she  would  abandon  them — would  come  nearer  to 
him.  This  man  Aldrich  here  summed  up  to  her 
the  success  of  her  ideas. 

"I  think  I  shall  leave  you  for  a  while,"  Allen 
said. 

He  moved  toward  the  door. 

David  knew  where  Allen  was  going.  Help- 
less to  save  himself,  he  stood  motionless,  erect, 
and  watched  Allen  start  from  the  room. 

Helen,  very  pale,  blocked  Allen's  way.  "You 
intend  to  have  him  arrested.  It's  in  your  face." 

"I  certainly  do," 


A  PARTIAL  RELEASE          375 

"You  must  not!"  cried  Helen,  desperately. 
"Why,  he  took  nothing — you  yourself  told  me  he 
took  nothing." 

"That  doesn't  make  him  any  less  a  thief,"  re- 
turned Allen.  "He  had  good  reason  for  not  tak- 
ing anything — he  was  frightened  away." 

He  started  to  pass  around  her,  but  she  caught 
his  arm.  "You  must  not!  You'll  be  commit- 
ting a  crime !" 

He  looked  at  her  almost  pitingly.  "Really, 
Helen,  he  must  have  hypnotised  you.  You  know 
he's  a  thief.  I  caught  him  in  the  act;  he's  con- 
fessed to  you.  What  more  can  you  want?" 

She  gazed  steadily  up  into  his  face.  "Won't 
you  let  him  go  if  I  assure  you  that  in  arresting 
him  you'll  be  making  the  mistake  of  your  life?" 

"No.  Because  I  know  that  you,  in  believing 
that,  are  mistaken." 

She  was  silent  a  moment ;  her  brown  eyes  never 
left  his  face.  "Won't  you  let  him  go  because  I, 
a  friend,  ask  it  as  a  favour?" 

"You  are  making  it  very  hard  for  me,"  he  said 
in  genuine  distress.  "You  know  it's  a  duty  to 
society  to  put  such  men  where  they  can  do  no 
harm." 

"Nothing  can  prevent  your  arresting  him?" 
she  asked  slowly. 

"It's  my  duty,"  he  said. 

Her  face  was  turning  gray  with  despair,  when 
her  eyes  began  to  widen  and  her  lips  to  part,  and 
she  drew  in  a  long,  slow  breath  and  one  hand 
crept  up  to  her  bosom.  She  looked  about  at 
David. 

"Will  you  please  wait  for  me  in  the  library," 
she  said;  and  she  added  immediately  to  Allen, 


376  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"I'll  give  you  bond  for  his  return  when  you  want 
him." 

David  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

Helen  caught  the  back  of  a  chair.  The  hand 
above  her  heart  pressed  tightly.  "You  have  left 
me  but  one  thing  more  to  say  for  him,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

"And  that?"  asked  Allen. 

"I  love  him." 

He  stepped  back  and  his  face  went  as  pale  as 
her  own.  Several  moments  passed  before  words 
came  from  him. 

"You  love  Mr.  Aldrich?"  asked  a  strange 
whisper. 

"I  love  him,"  she  said. 

Again  several  moments  passed  before  he 
spoke,  and  when  he  did  speak  his  words  were  to 
himself  rather  than  to  her. 

"And  this  is  my  answer?" 

"Forgive  me — because  it  came  this  way,"  she 
begged. 

There  was  silence  between  them. 

"He  is  safe,"  he  said.  He  continued  gazing 
at  her  several  moments,  then  without  speaking 
again  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FATHEE  AND   DAUGHTER 

FOR  several  minutes  after  Allen  had  gone, 
Helen  sat,  her  face  in  her  hands,  waiting 
for  the  refluence  of  her  strength.  Then  she 
walked  back  to  the  library,  where  she  found 
David  pacing  restlessly  to  and  fro.  He  saw  that 
she  was  very  white  and  that  she  was  trembling, 
and  forbearing  to  question  her  he  led  her  to  a 
deep  easy-chair  before  the  open  wood  fire.  But 
she  saw  his  suspense  and  at  once  told  him  that 
Allen  would  be  silent. 

Gently,  reverently,  David  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  hair,  and  of  all  the  things  in  his  heart  he  could 
only  say,  "You  saved  me." 

She  drew  his  hand  down  and  held  it  against 
her  cheek  and  gazed  up  into  his  eyes.  He  sat 
down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  They  had  both 
been  through  too  great  a  strain  to  fall  into  easy 
converse,  and  for  several  minutes  each  was  filled 
with  quivering  thoughts.  Presently  David  re- 
membered what  he  had  forgotten  since  entering 
the  house — his  experience  at  St.  John's  Hospital. 
He  told  her  the  story,  and  when  he  had  ended 
he  drew  out  the  packet  containing  the  yellow  let- 
ters, the  photograph  and  the  two  notes  of  five 
'years  before. 

"Well,  they'll  make  no  more  trouble,"  he  said, 
and  started  toward  the  fireplace. 

377 


878 

She  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do?" 

"Burn  them." 

She  shook  her  head  and  held  out  her  hand. 
"No — you  must  not.  Give  them  to  me." 

He  laid  them  in  her  hand.  "But  why  do  you 
want  them?" 

"Didn't  you  ever  think,  David,  that  there  may 
come  a  time,  years  from  now,  when  you  may 
want  to  clear  your  name?  Well,  these  letters 
will  help.  I  shall  keep  them  for  that  time. 
They're  precious  to  me,  because  they  contain 
your  good  name." 

She  slipped  the  soiled  and  worn  packet  into 
the  front  of  her  dress.  In  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed, her  mind,  as  it  was  constantly  doing  these 
days,  reverted  to  her  father's  business  practices, 
and  again  she  was  beset  by  the  necessity  of  tell- 
ing David  her  new  estimate  of  her  father.  She 
gathered  her  strength,  and,  eyes  downcast,  told 
him  briefly,  brokenly,  that  her  father  was  not  an 
honest  man.  "So  you  see,"  she  ended,  "I  have 
no  right  to  any  of  these  things  about  me — I  have 
no  right  to  stay  here." 

David  had  suffered  with  her  the  shame  of  her 
confession.  He  took  her  hands.  "Oh,  I  wish 
I  had  the  right  to  ask  you  to  come  to  me, 
Helen!" 

She  raised  her  eyes.  "I'm  coming  to  you," 
she  said. 

"But  I'd  be  a  brute  to  let  you.  You  can  leave 
your  father,  and  yet  keep  almost  everything  of 
your  present  life  except  its  wealth — your  friends, 
your  position,  your  influence,  your  honour.  I 
can't  let  you  give  up  all  these  things — exchange 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER     379 

them  for  my  disgrace.  I  can't  let  you  become 
the  wife  of  a  thief!  I  love  you  too  much!" 

"But  I'm  ready  for  it!"  ' 

"I  can't  do  it,  Helen !     I  can't !" 

She  gazed  at  his  pain-drawn,  determined  face 
— her  eyes  wide,  her  lips  loosely  parted,  her  face 
gray.  "And  you  never  will?"  she  whispered. 

"I  can't!"  he  groaned  huskily. 

His  arm  dropped  from  the  chair  back  about 
her  shoulders,  and  they  sat  silently  gazing  into 
each  other's  eyes.  They  were  still  sitting  so 
when  the  library  doors  rolled  back  and  Mr. 
Chambers  appeared  between  them.  David 
sprang  up,  and  Helen  also  rose.  Mr.  Chambers 
gave  back  a  pace  as  to  a  blow,  and  his  hand 
gripped  the  door.  For  a  moment  he  stared  at 
them,  then  he  quietly  closed  the  door  and  crossed 
the  room. 

Rigidly  erect,  he  paused  in  front  of  Helen, 
his  face  pale  and  set  and  harsh,  and  looked 
squarely  into  her  face.  He  turned  a  second  to 
David;  his  gray  eyes  were  like  knives  of  gray 
steel.  Then  his  gaze  came  back  to  Helen. 

"What's  this  mean?"  his  quiet  voice  grated  out. 

Helen's  face  was  like  paper  and  her  eyes,  held 
straight  into  his,  had  a  fixed,  wild  stare.  She 
gathered  her  strength  with  a  supreme  effort. 

"I'm  going  to  marry  him,"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  he  merely  stared  at  her.  Then 
he  reached  out  a  hand  that  trembled,  caught  her 
arm  and  shook  her  lightly. 

"Helen?"  he  cried.     "Helen?" 

"I'm  going  to  marry  him,"  she  repeated,  with 
a  little  gasp. 

"You're — really — in — your — senses  ?" 


380  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"I  am." 

He  loosed  his  hold,  and  studied  her  strained 
face.  "You  are!"  he  whispered,  in  low  conster- 
nation. 

David's  defiant  hatred  of  Mr.  Chambers  was 
beginning  to  rise.  He  was  willing  that  Mr. 
Chambers  should  feel  pain;  but  Helen's  suffer- 
ing because  of  himself,  this  would  not  let  him 
keep  silent. 

"But,  Helen,  you  know  you're ' 

She  stopped  him  with  a  touch  on  his  shoulder. 
"This  is  my  moment.  I've  been  expecting  it. 
It  is  I  that  must  speak." 

Mr.  Chambers  slowly  reddened  with  anger. 
"Marry  that  thief?  You  shall  not!"  he  cried. 

Her  face  was  twitching,  tears  were  starting 
in  her  eyes.  "Forgive  me  for  saying  it,  father," 
she  besought  tremulously,  "but — can  you  prevent 
me?" 

"Your  reason,  your  self-respect,  should  pre- 
vent you.  Have  you  thought  of  the  poverty?" 

She  put  a  hand  through  David's  arm.  "I 
have.  I'm  ready  for  it." 

"And  of  the  disgrace?" 

"I'm  ready  for  it." 

He  paled  again.  He  saw  the  utter  social  ruin 
of  his  daughter,  and  it  gave  him  infinite  pain — 
and  he  saw  the  social  injury  to  himself.  She 
would  sink  from  her  present  world,  and  her  sink- 
ing would  be  the  year's  scandal;  and  that  scan- 
dal he  would  have  to  live  with,  daily  meet  face 
to  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  your  act  will  also 
disgrace  your  family,  your  friends.  You  are 
willing  to  disgrace  me?" 

For  three  weeks  conscience  had  demanded  one 


attitude  toward  him,  love  another.  "Please  let's 
not  speak  of  that!"  she  begged. 

"You're  willing  to  disgrace  me?"  he  repeated. 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment;  then  "For- 
give me — I  am,"  she  whispered. 

"And  you're  decided — absolutely  determined?" 

She  nodded. 

"My  God,  Helen!"  he  burst  out,  "to  think  that 
you,  with  open  eyes,  would  destroy  yourself  and 
dishonour  your  father!" 

"Forgive  me!"  she  begged. 

He  turned  to  David,  his  face  fierce  with  rage- 
ful  contempt.  "And  Aldrich!  Let  me  say  one 
thing  to  you.  Any  man  in  your  situation  who 
would  ask  a  decent  woman  to  marry  him  is  a 
damned  cad!" 

Helen  raised  a  hand  to  stop  the  retort  that  was 
on  David's  lips.  "It  is  I  that  insist  on  marriage 
— he  refuses  me,"  she  said  quietly. 

Mr.  Chambers  stared  long  at  her,  astounded 
as  he  had  never  before  been  in  his  life.  "There's 
something  behind  all  this,"  he  said,  abruptly. 

She  was  silent. 

Even  in  this  tense  moment  his  readiness  did 
not  desert  him.  Sometimes  one  is  stronger  than 
two,  sometimes  weaker.  This  time  one  would  be 
weaker. 

"Mr.  Aldrich,"  he  said  quietly,  "would  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  leave  us.  There  are  matters 
here  to  be  talked  over  only  between  Helen  and 
me." 

Helen  felt  the  moment  before  her  she  had  for 
a  month  been  fearing — felt  herself  on  the  verge 
of  the  greatest  crisis  of  her  life.  "Yes — please 
do,  David.  It's  best  for  us  two  to  be  alone." 


382  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

She  gave  David  her  hand.  He  pressed  it  and 
silently  withdrew. 

Mr.  Chambers  stepped  close  to  Helen  and 
gazed  searchingly  into  her  face.  "There's  some- 
thing back  of  this.  You're  telling  me  all?" 

"I  can't — please  don't  ask  me,  father!" 

"You  propose — he  refuses,"  he  said  medita- 
tively. He  studied  her  face  for  several  mo- 
ments. "I  think  I  know  you,  my  child. — I 
would  have  staked  my  fortune,  my  life,  that  you 
would  never  have  given  yourself  to  any  but*  a 
man  of  the  highest  character." 

His  face  knitted  with  thought;  he  began  to 
nod  his  head  ever  so  slightly.  "I  recall  now  that 
there  were  some  queer  circumstances  connected 
with  his  taking  the  money.  His  motives,  what 
he  did  with  it,  did  not  seem  particularly  plausible 
to  me." 

His  eyes  fairly  looked  her  through.  His 
mind,  trained  to  see  and  consider  instantly  all  the 
factors  of  a  situation,  and  instantly  to  reach  a 
conclusion,  sought  with  all  its  concentration  the 
most  logical  explanation  of  this  mystery. 

After  a  moment  he  said  softly:  "So — he 
didn't  take  the  money  after  all?" 

She  gazed  at  him  in  choking  fascination. 

"If  he  had  taken  it,  if  he  was  what  he  seems 
to  be,  you  would  never  have  offered  to  marry 
him,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  soft  voice.  "I've 
guessed  right — have  I  not?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Have  I  not?"  he  repeated,  dominantly. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  words  were  being 
dragged  from  her  by  a  resistless  power.  "Yes," 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER     883 

she  whispered.  The  next  instant  she  clasped  her 
hands.  "Oh,  why  did  I  tell!"  she  cried. 

"I  guessed  it,"  he  said. 

They  looked  silently  at  each  other  for  a  space. 
When  he  spoke  his  tone  was  quiet  again. 

"Since  I  know  the  main  fact  I  might  as  well 
know  the  minor  ones.  Why  did  he  pretend  to  be 
guilty?" 

She  hesitated.  But  he  knew  the  essential  fact 
— and,  besides,  he  was  her  father,  and  she  had 
the  daughter-desire  for  her  father  to  appreciate 
what  manner  of  a  man  this  was  whom  she  loved. 
So  she  told  the  story  in  a  few  sentences. 

"It's  remarkable,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
showed  he  had  been  affected  deeply.  "I  can  see 
that  it  was  a  deed  to  touch  a  woman's  heart.  All 
the  same — he's  not  the  match  I'd  prefer  for  you." 

He  was  thoughtful  for  several  moments.  He 
knew  the  quality  of  Helen's  will — knew  there 
was  no  changing  her  determination  to  marry 
David.  The  problem,  then,  wras  to  arrange  so 
that  the  marriage  would  bring  the  minimum  dis- 
grace. 

"No,  he's  not  the  match  I'd  prefer  for  you. 
Still,  if  he'll  publicly  admit  and  establish  his  in- 
nocence, I'll  have  not  a  word  to  say  against  him." 

"But  we've  agreed  that  he  can't  do  that,"  she 
said.  "I've  already  made  plain  to  you  that  to 
clear  himself  wrould  be  to  destroy  St.  Christo- 
pher's." 

"Nothing  can  change  that  decision?" 

"No." 

Mr.  Chambers  again  thought  for  a  minute. 
"I  think  you  exaggerate  the  effect  of  the  truth 


384  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

on  St.  Chistopher's.  However,  for  the  moment, 
I'll  grant  you're  right.  From  what  you  told  me 
I  gather  Mr.  Aldrich  has  some  rather  large  phil- 
anthropic ideas.  Well,  if  he  will  clear  himself, 
I'll  settle  upon  you  any  amount  you  wish — ten 
million,  twenty  million.  That  will  enable  him  to 
carry  out  his  ideas  on  any  scale  he  may  like. 
The  good  he  can  do  will  more  than  balance  any 
injury  that  may  be  done  to  St.  Christopher's. 
On  the  one  hand,  he  will  have,  and  you  with  him, 
powerless  disgrace.  On  the  other,  clear  name, 
love,  fortune,  unlimited  power  to  do  good." 

She  slowly  shook  her  head.  "It's  all  thought 
over — he  can't  do  it." 

"And  nothing  can  change  your  determination 
to  marry  him?" 

She  held  out  a  hand  to  him.  "No.  Forgive 
me,  father,"  she  whispered. 

He  gazed  steadily  at  her — and  again  his  quick 
mind  was  searching  for  a  solution  to  the  situa- 
tion. He  pressed  her  hand.  "I  want  to  think. 
We'll  speak  of  this  again." 

He  started  out,  but  she  stepped  before  him. 
"Wait — there's  something  I  must  say.  But 
first,  you  must  never  tell  what  you've  just  found 
out."' 

He  did  not  answer. 

His  silence  stirred  a  sudden  new  fear.  She 
crept  close  to  him  and  peered  up  into  his  face. 
"Father — you're  not  going  to  tell,  are  you?" 

Again  he  was  silent. 

Her  face  paled  with  consternation.  She 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  her  voice  came  out  a 
thin  whisper.  "You  are  going  to  tell,  father! 
I  see  it." 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER     385 

He  looked  into  her  wide  brown  eyes  and  at 
her  quivering  face.  "I  think,  Helen,  you  can 
leave  the  proper  action  to  my  discretion." 

She  swayed  slightly,  and  then  her  whole  body 
tightened  with  effort.  "You  are  going  to  make 
his  innocence  public,"  she  said,  with  slow  accusa- 
tion. "You  can't  deny  it." 

"I  am,"  he  said  shortly. 

She  stepped  a  pace  nearer  him.  "You  must 
not!  You  must  not!"  she  cried. 

His  jaw  tightened  and  his  brows  drew  to- 
gether. "I  shall! — you  hear  me?" 

"But,  father — it  isn't  your  secret.  You 
haven't  the  right." 

"I  have  the  right  to  protect  my  own  daughter 
and  myself!" 

"But  to  destroy  others?"  she  implored.  "You 
know  it  will  ruin  hundreds.  Have  you  the  right 
to  do  that?" 

"A  man's  first  duty  is  to  those  nearest  him." 

"But  don't  you  see? — you  destroy  hundreds  to 
save  yourself,  and  me!" 

"You  have  my  answer,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  despairingly.  "Then  noth- 
ing can  stop  you?" 

"Nothing."  His  face  was  firm,  his  voice 
hard.  "And  now,  Helen,  I'm  going,"  he  said 
shortly.  "There's  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

Helen  caught  his  arm.  "Not  yet!"  She 
gazed  at  him,  her  face  gray  and  helpless.  .  .  . 
Then  the  crisis  gave  her  inspiration.  A  new 
view  of  the  situation  flashed  into  her  mind. 
She  considered  it  for  several  moments. 

"Father,"  she  said. 

"Well?" 


386  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

She  spoke  slowly,  with  a  frantic  control,  with 
the  earnestness  of  desperation.  "Listen,  father. 
Suppose  you  tell — what  will  be  the  use?  David 
will  deny  your  story.  I,  who  shall  be  with  him, 
I  shall  deny  the  story.  And  there  is  the  decision 
of  the  court.  All  say  the  same.  On  your  side, 
you  have  no  proof — not  one  bit.  The  world  will 
say  you  made  up  the  story  just  to  save  yourself. 
The  world  will  honour  you  less,  because  it  will 
say  you've  tried  to  save  yourself  by  disgracing 
Mr.  Morton.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see,  father?— 
it  will  do  you  no  good  to  tell! — don't  you  see?" 

He  gazed  at  her,  but  did  not  answer. 

"The  story  will  create  a  great  scandal — yes," 
she  went  on.  "For  you  to  accuse  Mr.  Morton — 
you  know  how  that  will  injure  St.  Christopher's 
before  the  public — you  know  how  it  will  lessen 
the  Mission's  influence  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  story  will  do  great  ill — so  very  great  an  ill! 
But  it  will  not  help  you  a  bit,  father — not  a  bit !" 

She  paused  a  moment.  "Please  do  not  tell  it 
father!  Please  do  not  ...  I  beg  it  of 
you!" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  realised  the 
truth  of  what  she  had  said — but  to  yield  was 
hard  for  the  Chambers's  will,  and  it  was  hard 
to  accept  the  great  dishonour.  He  swallowed 
with  an  effort. 

"Very  well,"  he  said. 

"Then  you'll  say  nothing?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"No."  " 

"Oh,  thank  you! — thank  you!"  she  cried,  her 
voice  vibrating  with  her  great  relief. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  long 
space.  "I  hope  this  is  all,"  he  said. 

"There's  one  more  thing,"  she  answered,  and 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER     387 

tried  to  gather  herself  for  another  effort.  Her 
breast  rose  and  fell,  and  she  was  all  a-tremble. 
"There  is  something  else — something  I  must  say 
— something  that  has  been  upon  my  heart  for 
weeks.  Say  that  you  forgive  me  before  I  say 
it,  father!" 

"Go  on!" 

Her  voice  was  no  more  than  a  whisper.  "I 
have  learned  that  the  stories  .  .  .  about 
your  not  being  honest  .  .  .  are  true." 

His  face  blanched.  "So — you  insult  your 
own  father!" 

"Don't  make  it  any  harder!"  she  besought  pit- 
eously. 

"You  do  not  understand  business  matters," 
he  said,  harshly. 

She  did  not  hear  his  last  words.  "This  is  the 
other  thing — I'm  going  to  leave  home,"  she  went 
on  rapidly.  "Perhaps  I  would  not  decide  to  do 
what  I  am  going  to  do,  if  I  thought  I  could  help 
you — to  be  different.  But  I  know  you,  father; 
I  know  you  will  not — be  different;  you  do  not 
need  me — you  are  strong  and  need  no  support — 
you  will  have  Aunt  Caroline.  So  I  am  going 
to  go. 

"I'm  going  to  leave  home  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  no  right  to  it — to  it  and  the  other 
things  of  my  life.  You  understand.  So  I 
want  to  ask  you  not  to  send  any  of  these  things 
to  me.  I  want  nothing — not  a  cent." 

He  was  silent  a  moment.  The  determination 
in  her  face  again  kept  him  from  argument  or  in- 
tercession. He  saw  that  to  her  this  break  was 
a  great,  tragic,  unchangeable  fact,  and  so  it  also 
became  to  him. 

"But  how  are  you  going  to  live?"  he  asked. 


388  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

"I  have  the  money  mother  left  me — that's 
enough." 

Despite  the  tragedy  of  the  moment  a  faint 
smile  drew  back  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
"That's  two  thousand  a  year — that  doesn't  begin 
to  pay  for  your  clothes." 

"I  shall  wear  different  clothes.  It  will  be 
enough." 

"Very  well."  His  face  became  grim.  "And 
I  have  my  reason  why  I  cannot  give  you  any- 
thing! Do  you  realise,  Helen,  that  you  are  driv- 
ing me,  in  order  to  protect  my  reputation,  to 
disown  you  publicly  if  you  marry  Mr.  Aldrich?" 

She  did  not  reply.  "But  don't  forget,"  he 
went  on  after  a  moment,  "that  you  are  escap- 
ing my  fortune  only  temporarily.  It  will  all  go 
to  you  on  my  death." 

"No— no!    I  don't  want  it!" 

"But  you  can't  escape  it,  if  I  choose  to  leave 
it  to  you." 

"If  you  do,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  shall  use  it 
to  make  restitution,  as  far  as  I  can,  to  the  people 
it — it  came  from."  She  added,  almost  breath- 
lessly, "Why  not  do  that  now,  father?  It's  the 
thing  I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you,  but  have  not 
dared." 

"I  have  not  noticed  any  lack  of  daring,"  he 
observed  grimly. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  "Then  this  is  all," 
she  said. 

Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him, 
and  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  "Forgive  me, 
father! — forgive  me!" 

Standing  very  erect,  his  hands  folded  before 
him,  he  gazed  fixedly  into  her  imploring  face 


FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER     389 

while  his  mind  comprehended  their  new  relations. 

She  dared  a  step  nearer  and  laid  a  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "Forgive  me — won't  you  please, 
father?"  she  whispered. 

His  face  twitched,  and  he  put  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  almost  convulsively.  "You're 
taking  my  heart  out!"  he  said  huskily. 

"Forgive  me!"  she  sobbed.  "I  can't  help  it! 
I'm  the  way  God  made  me." 

"And  God  made  you  very  much  like  your 
mother,"  he  said,  his  mind  running  back  to 
scenes  not  unlike  this.  He  drew  her  to  him  and 
she  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  they 
kissed. 

"I  love  my  father — I  always  shall — it's  the 
business  man  that" — but  her  voice  trailed  away 
into  sobs. 

They  drew  apart.  "We  shall  never  speak  of 
this  matter  again,"  she  said  tremulously.  She 
held  out  her  hand.  "Good-bye  .  .  .  father. 
I  shall  see  you  again — yes.  But  this  is  the  real 
good-bye." 

He  took  her  hand.     "Good-bye,"  he  said. 

They  gazed  steadily  into  each  other's  eyes. 
"Good-bye,"  she  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  and, 
head  down,  walked  slowly  from  the  room. 

He  sat  long  before  the  fire  while  upon  him 
his  new  situation  pressed  more  heavily,  more 
sharply.  It  was  the  bitterest  hour  of  his  life. 
Upon  him  bore  the  pain  of  impending  public  dis- 
grace, the  pain  of  the  loss  of  his  daughter — and 
cruellest  of  all,  the  pain  of  being  judged  by  the 
one  person  of  his  heart,  disowned  by  her.  And 
this  last  bitterness  was  given  a  deep-cutting, 


390  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

ironic  edge  as  he  realised  afresh  that,  to  protect 
himself,  he  must  disown  her — that,  cast  off  by 
her,  he  must  make  it  appear  to  the  world  that 
he  had  cast  her  off. 

And  how  the  world  would  take  this !  His  im- 
agination saw  in  the  papers  of  some  near  day, 
across  the  first  page  in  great  black  head-lines, 
"Miss  Helen  Chambers  Marries  Ex-Convict — 
Disowned  and  Disinherited  By  Her  Father — 
Social  World  Horrified!"  The  irony  of  it! 

But  even  in  this  hour,  pained  as  he  was  by 
Helen's  judgment,  he  felt  no  regret  for  those 
deeds  for  which  he  had  been  judged.  For  thirty 
years  and  more  he  had  had  one  supreme  object 
— to  take  from  life,  for  himself,  all  that  life 
could  be  made  to  yield.  All  his  faculties  were 
pointed  to,  attuned  to,  acquisition.  His  instinct, 
his  long  habit,  his  mighty  will,  his  opportunity- 
making  mind,  his  long  succession  of  successes, 
the  irresistible  command  of  his  every  cell  to  go 
on,  and  on,  and  on — all  these  united  in  a  mo- 
mentum that  allowed  him  neither  to  recoil  from 
what  he  had  done  nor  to  regard  it  with  regret. 
He  felt  pain,  yes — but  mixed  with  his  pain  was 
no  other  feeling,  no  impulse,  that  would  swerve 
his  life  even  a  single  degree  from  its  thirty-years' 
direction. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  LIFE 

IN  five  minutes  the  long,  heavy  express  was 
due  to  puli  out  of  the  station  and  go  lung- 
ing westward  through  the  night.  Kate's  and 
Rogers's  hand  luggage  was  piled  in  Kate's  seat, 
and  across  the  aisle  and  a  little  ahead,  in  Rog- 
ers's seat,  were  the  two  travellers,  side  by  side. 
Facing  them  sat  David  and  the  Mayor,  the  lat- 
ter just  back  from  his  brief  honeymoon,  and 
standing  in  the  aisle  was  Tom. 

"Well,  got  everything  you  need  for  the  trip?" 
asked  the  Mayor,  in  tones  that  filled  the  sleeper. 

"There's  enough  in  our  trunks  and  in  those 
bags" — Rogers  nodded  backward  towards  Kate's 
seat — "for  a  trip  to  the  moon.  Aldrich  tried  to 
buy  out  New  York." 

"There's  nothin'  like  havin'  too  much,"  de- 
clared the  Mayor.  "Oh,  say  there,  captain,"  he 
cried  to  the  porter  who  had  just  brushed  by. 
"See  here." 

The  porter  turned  back.  "Yes  suh."  There 
was  even  more  than  the  usual  porterly  deference 
in  his  manner,  as  he  instantly  measured  the  au- 
thority in  the  Mayor's  florid  person  and  took 
note  of  the  silk  hat  and  the  imposing  be-flowered 
vest.  "Yes  suh." 

"These  here  two  people  are  friends  o'  mine. 
You  want  to  see  that  they  get  everything  that's 

391 


392  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

comin'  to  'em,  and  a  few  more  besides.     Under- 
stand?" 

"Yes  suh." 

j  The  Mayor,  with  some  effort,  got  into  and  out 
of  a  trouser  pocket,  and  held  forth  a  dollar. 
"If  you  ain't  bashful,  take  that.  And  stick  it 
some  place  where  your  willingness'll  know 
you've  got  it. 

"There's  nobody'll  treat  you  as  white  as  a  well- 
tipped  nigger,"  he  remarked  as  the  porter  passed 
on.  He  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on 
Roger s's  knee,  his  smiling  face  redly  brilliant 
under  the  Pintsch  light.  "Just  as  soon  as  you 
get  your  bellows  mended  and  some  meat  on  your 
bones,  I'm  goin'  to  write  you  a  letter  handin'  you 
some  straight  advice." 

The  edge  of  his  glance  slyly  took  in  Kate. 
"No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  wait.  I'll  tell  you  now  and 
be  in  the  price  o'  the  stamp.  Friend — get  mar- 
ried!" 

Kate  rose  abruptly,  walked  back  to  her  seat 
and  began  to  fumble  about  the  baggage. 

The  Mayor  nodded  his  head  emphatically. 
"There's  nothin' like  it!" 

The  cry,  "All  aboard,"  sounded  through  the 
car,  and  they  rose.  The  Mayor  said  good-bye, 
and  after  him  Tom.  Then  David  took  Rogers's 
thin  hand.  The  two  men  silently  gazed  at  one 
another  for  a  long  moment;  each  realised  he 
might  never  again  look  into  the  other's  face. 

"Good-bye,  old  man,"  breathed  David,  grip- 
ping his  hand.  "I  hope  it's  going  to  be  as  you 
hope.  God  knows  you  deserve  it!" 

Rogers's  large  eyes  clung  to  him.     "I've  never 


had  a  friend  like  you!"  he  said  slowly.  "Good- 
bye— and  if  it's  to  be  the  long  good-bye,  then 
.  .  .  well,  good-bye!" 

He  broke  off,  then  added:  "You're  going  to 
try  to  help  change  some  things  we  both  know  are 
wrong.  Never  forget  one  thing:  the  time  to 
reform  a  criminal  is  before  he  becomes  one. 
Save  the  kids. — God  bless  you!" 

The  car  began  slowly  to  move.  They  gripped 
hands  again,  and  David  hurried  back  to  Kate, 
whom  the  Mayor  had  just  left  and  who  was 
kissing  Tom  good-bye.  David  took  her  hand, 
and  on  gazing  into  her  dark  eyes  and  restrained 
face,  it  rushed  upon  him  anew  how  much  joy 
she  had  brought  him  and  how  much  misery  he 
had  given  her;  and  suddenly  he  was  without  a 
single  word  to  say  farewell. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said  with  a  forced  calmness. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  burst  out  in  a  whisper. 
"Your  heart  will  tell  you  what  I'd  like  to  tell 
you.  Forgive  me!" 

Her  head  sank  forward  in  affirmation.  "But 
you've  done  nothing." 

There  was  no  time  to  reply  to  that.  "God 
bless  you,  Kate! — Good-bye!"  he  cried  in  a  low 
voice.  He  ran  out  of  the  rapidly  moving  car 
and  swung  himself  to  the  platform — uncon- 
scious that  Kate's  eyes  had  followed  him  to  the 
last. 

He  joined  the  Mayor,  and  together  with  Tom 
they  walked  out  of  the  station  and  into  the  street, 
talking  of  the  friends  they  had  just  left.  But 
the  Mayor,  who  had  met  the  party  at  the  station, 
and  consequently  had  not  had  a  confidential 


394,  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

word  with  David,  was  bubbling  with  his  own  af- 
fairs, and  he  quickly  left  Kate  and  Rogers  to 
travel  their  way  alone. 

"Friend,"  he  said  with  joyful  solemnity,  slip- 
ping his  arm  through  David's,  "I'm  the  biggest 
fool  that  ever  wore  pants  1" 

"Why?" 

"For  not  lettin'  Carrie  marry  me  before." 

"Then  you're  happy?" 

"Happy?"  A  great  laugh  rose  from  beneath 
the  Mayor's  vest,  and  he  gave  David  a  hearty 
slap  upon  the  back.  "Yes,  sir!  Happy! — 
that's  me! 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  went  on,  after  they  had  boarded 
a  car,  "I've  got  only  one  thing  agin  Carrie,  and 
that  is  that  she  didn't  rope  me  in  before.  Say, 
she's  all  right — she's  It.  No  siree,  friend,  there 
ain't  nothin'  like  gettin'  married!" 

The  Mayor  continued  his  praise  of  his  present 
state  till  David  and  Tom  bade  him  good  night 
and  left  the  car.  As  they  walked  through  the 
cross  street  a  sense  of  loneliness  began  to  settle 
upon  David;  so  that  when  Tom  slipped  a  hand 
through  his  arm  he  drew  the  hand  close  against 
his  side. 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  me,  are  you?" 

"Me?"  Tom  hugged  the  arm  he  held.  "Not 
till  you  trun  me  out!" 

They  walked  in  silence  for  a  block.  "Pard," 
Tom  began  in  a  low  voice,  "I  don't  know  why 
you've  been  so  good  to  me.  I  don't  know  nut- 
tin',  an'  I'm  a  lot  o'  trouble.  Mebbe  sometimes 
you  t'ink  I  don't  appreciate  all  what  you've  done 
for  me.  But  I  do.  When  I  t'ink  about  when 
I  tried  to  steal  your  coat  a  year  ago,  an'  den 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  LIFE     395 

when  I  t'ink  about  now — I  certainly  do  appre- 
ciate. I'm  goin'  to  work  hard — an'  I'm  goin' 
to  study  hard — an'  I'm  goin'  to  do  what  you  tell 
me.  If  I  do,  d'you  t'ink  I'll  ever  make  some- 
body?" 

David  pressed  the  arm  closer.  "My  boy, 
you're  going  to  make  a  splendid  man!" 

Tom  looked  up;  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
"Pard — I'd  die  tryin' — for  you!"  he  said. 

When  they  reached  the  apartment  house  that 
held  their  new  home,  David  sent  Tom  upstairs 
and  set  out  for  St.  Christopher's  Mission.  His 
sense  of  loneliness  made  his  mind  dwell  upon  Mr. 
Chambers's  offer  of  millions;  for  earlier  in  the 
evening  a  messenger  had  brought  a  note  from 
Helen  which  gave  the  substance  of  her  talk  with 
her  father.  He  would  not  have  returned  an 
answer  different  from  hers — yet  in  this  moment 
he  ached  for  those  things  which  had  been  refused 
in  his  name,  and  the  aching  drew  him  to  look 
upon  that  for  which  he  had  given  them  up. 

He  paused  across  the  street  from  St.  Christo- 
pher's and  gazed  at  the  brilliant  windows  of  the 
club-house  and  at  the  great  window  in  the  chapel 
that  glowed  in  memory  of  Morton.  Then  he 
crossed  the  street  and  entered  the  club-house. 
A  few  young  men  and  women  were  coming 
down  the  stairway,  and  a  few  struggling  late- 
comers were  mounting  to  the  floors  above.  He 
stood  irresolute,  then  noticing  that  farther  down 
the  hall  the  door  of  the  assembly  room  was  open, 
he  cautiously  joined  the  little  knot  of  people  who 
stood  about  it. 

The  room  was  crowded  with  men  and  women, 
all  in  their  best  clothes.  David  quickly  gathered 


396  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

from  the  talk  of  the  officers  on  the  platform,  all 
women,  that  this  was  a  meeting  of  the  Women's 
Club,  held  for  the  double  purpose  of  installing 
new  officers  and  entertaining  the  members'  hus- 
bands. He  had  been  gazing  in  but  a  few  min- 
utes when  the  new  president,  a  shapeless  little 
woman,  was  sworn  into  office.  The  audience  de- 
manded a  speech,  and  her  homely  face  glowing 
with  happiness  and  embarrassment,  she  re- 
sponded in  a  few  halting,  grammarless  phrases. 
"I  hope  I  can  do  my  duty,"  she  ended,  "so  good 
that  Dr.  Morton,  who  got  us  to  make  this  club, 
won't  never  be  ashamed  when  he  looks  down 
on  it." 

Her  other  sentences  had  been  applauded,  but 
this  last  was  received  in  that  deep  silence  which 
is  applause  at  its  highest;  and  it  came  to  David 
afresh  that  Morton  was  still  the  soul  of  St. 
Christopher's.  All  the  while  that  other  officers 
were  being  installed  this  closing  sentence  and  its 
significance  persisted  in  his  mind,  and  so  en- 
grossed him  that  he  was  startled  when  the  fold- 
ing chairs  began  to  be  rattled  shut  and  stacked 
in  one  corner  of  the  room.  A  little  later  a  piano 
and  a  violin  started  up,  and  part  of  the  fathers 
and  mothers  began  stumbling  about  in  a  two- 
step,  and  part  crowded  against  the  walls  and 
made  merry  over  the  awkwardness  and  disasters 
of  the  dancers. 

David  slipped  out  of  the  building.  Clearer 
than  ever  before  had  come  to  him  a  realisation 
of  the  responsibility  of  sacrifice :  when  one  gives, 
the  gift  no  longer  belongs  to  one — it  belongs  to 
those  who  have  builded  their  lives  upon  it. 

Across  the  street,  he  looked  back.     Only  once 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  LIFE     397 

before  had  the  Morton  Memorial  window  seemed 
to  him  more  significant,  more  warm  and  pow- 
erful in  its  inspiration — and  that  was  on  the  day 
of  his  discharge  from  prison  when  it  had  first 
flashed  upon  his  vision.  Above  the  glowing  win- 
dow the  chapel's  short  spire,  softened  by  the 
round-hanging  poetry  of  night,  seemed  to  his 
imagination  to  be  the  uplifted,  supplicatory 
hands  of  the  neighbourhood.  .  .  .  Well, 
their  Morton  was  safe. 

When  David  reached  home  he  found  that  Tom 
was  in  bed  and  fast  asleep.  He  walked  through 
the  scantily  furnished  rooms.  They  were  still 
strange  to  him,  for  this  was  his  first  night  in 
them — and  their  strangeness,  and  the  fresh  loss 
of  two  of  his  best  friends,  and  the  sense,  which 
grew  heavier  and  darker,  that  he  and  Helen  must 
remain  apart,  sharpened  his  loneliness  to  a  rack- 
ing pain.  He  tried  to  dissipate  it  by  thinking 
of  the  ground  he  had  gained — progress  that  a 
year  ago,  when  all  men  refused  him  a  chance,  he 
would  have  thought  impossible;  by  thinking  of 
the  greater  achievements  the  future  held.  But 
he  could  not  beget  even  an  artificial  glow  of 
spirits;  his  success  seemed  but  ashes.  So  he 
ceased  to  struggle,  and  gave  himself  over  to  his 
dejection. 

He  turned  down  the  gas  in  his  little  sitting- 
room,  and  raising  the  shade  of  a  window  he  sat 
down  and  gazed  into  the  street.  It  was  always 
a  quiet  street — and  now,  at  half  past  ten,  only 
an  occasional  figure  moved  darkly  along  its  side- 
walks. Far  above  the  line  of  opposite  house- 
tops, in  a  moonless  sky,  gleamed  thousands  of 
white  stars.  Leaning  back  in  his  easy  chair,  and 


398  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

gazing  up  at  the  remote  points  of  light,  he  went 
over  anew  the  problem  of  his  relations  with 
Helen,  and  he  asked  himself  again  if  he  had  de- 
cided rightly.  Yes,  he  had  done  right  to  save 
her  .  .  .  And  yet,  how  he  longed  for  the 
thing  she  was  willing  to  give!  How  empty  his 
life  seemed  without  it — what  a  far,  far  stretch 
of  loneliness! 

His  gloom  was  pressing  heavier  and  heavier 
upon  him,  when  suddenly  there  came  a  ring  of 
his  bell.  Wondering  who  could  be  calling  on 
him  at  that  hour,  he  crossed  the  room  and  opened 
the  door.  A  tall  figure,  heavily  veiled  and  wear- 
ing a  long  coat,  stepped  in.  Despite  the  veil 
and  the  dusk  of  the  room,  he  knew  her  instantly. 

"Helen!"  he  exclaimed  in  an  awed  whisper. 

She  did  not  speak.  He  closed  the  door  and 
turned  up  the  gas,  and  he  saw  she  carried  a  small 
travelling  bag  in  one  hand. 

"Helen!"  he  said. 

She  set  the  bag  on  a  chair,  and  drew  her  veil 
up  over  the  front  of  her  hat.  Her  face  was 
pale,  determined. 

"I've  come  to  stay,"  she  said  slowly. 

He  could  only  stare  at  her. 

"I've  come  to  stay,"  she  repeated. 

"Helen!"  he  breathed. 

"I've  left  home — for  good.  I  belong  with 
you.  I  shall  not  go  away." 

"Helen!" 

"We  shall  be  married  to-night." 

He  gazed  wordless  at  her  white  face,  and  he 
vaguely  realised  what  her  mind  had  passed 
through  since  he  had  left  her  five  hours  before. 
A  wild  joy  sprang  ablaze  within  him — yet  he 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  LIFE     399 

held  fast  to  his  old  decision.     "But  Helen " 

"I've  thought  it  all  over,"  she  broke  in. 
"Everything.  Heretofore  you've  been  the  rock. 
Now  I'm  the  rock — I  can't  be  changed  .  .  . 
I  understand  that  you've  refused  me  because  you 
want  to  save  me,  and  I  love  you  for  it.  But  I 
have  searched  my  soul — I  know  what  I  want,  I 
know  what  I  can  bear,  I  know  what  is  best  for 
us  both.  I  know,  David! — I  know!  Since  you 
would  not  take  me,  I  have  come  here  to  force 
you  to  take  me.  You  cannot  avoid  it.  I  shall 
not  go  away." 

His  heart  thrilled  at  her  words,  at  the  stead- 
fastness of  her  erect  figure.  "But  Helen! — 
when  I  think  of  the  disgrace  that  will  fall  upon 
you — oh,  I  can't  let  you !" 

"The  truth  is  not  known  about  either  of  us," 
she  returned,  steadily.  "If  the  truth  were 
known  and  if  justice  were  done,  my  father  would 
be  disgraced  and  I  would  share  his  disgrace,  and 
you  would  be  exalted.  It  would  be  I  who  would 
dishonour  you.  If  I  do  get  a  part  of  your  false 
disgrace,  I  only  get  what  is  due  me. 

"You  have  borne  this  disgrace  for  years,"  she 
went  on.  "Don't  you  think  I  have  the  strength 
to  bear,  supported  by  you  and  love,  what  you 
have  borne  alone?" 

His  heart  drew  him  toward  her  with  all  its 
tremendous  strength. 

"I've  come  to  stay!"  she  repeated. 

He  wavered.  But  his  old  decision  had  still 
another  word.  "There's  one  more  thing,  Helen. 
We  can  speak  of  it — we  are  no  longer  children." 

"No,"  she  said.  Her  mind  fluttered  back  a 
month  to  when  they  had  stood  together  at  the 


400  TO  HIM  THAT  HATH 

window  of  the  Mission,  and  she  smiled  trem- 
ulously. "I'm  twenty-eight." 

He  remembered  the  day,  too,  and  smiled. 
"And  I'm  thirty-one — and  see,  the  gray  hairs!" 

His  face  sobered.  "There's  another  thing — 
children.  Would  it  be  fair  to  them? — to  be  born 
into  disgrace?" 

A  faint  colour  tinged  her  cheeks.  "I  have 
thought  of  everything — that  too,"  she  returned 
steadily.  "In  a  few  years  you  will  have  won  the 
respect  of  all;  it  will  be  an  honour,  not  a  dis- 
grace, to  be  your  child." 

Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 
"Oh,  I  want  to  share  your  sorrows,  David!  I 
want  to  share  your  sorrows!  And  there  will  be 
glories!  I  want  to  help  in  the  good  you  are 
going  to  do.  My  life  will  count  for  most  with 
you  .  .  .  I've  come  to  stay,  David!  I  be- 
long with  you!  I'm  not  going  away!  Take 
me!" 

He  sprang  forward.  "Oh,  Helen!"  his  soul 
cried  out;  and  he  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 

A  few  minutes  later,  when  he  returned  from 
telephoning  an  old  clergyman  whom  she  knew 
well,  she  met  him  with  a  glowing  smile.  "I've 
been  all  through  it — I  shall  love  it,  our  home!" 

He  thought  of  the  home  she  had  just  left. 
He  caught  her  hands  and  gazed  into  her  deep 
eyes.  "Darling — you'll  never  regret  this?"  he 
asked  slowly. 

"I  never  shall." 

"God  grant  it!" 

"I  never  shall.  This  is  the  day  when  my  life 
begins." 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  LIFE     401 

"And  mine,  too!"  He  drew  her  to  him,  and 
kissed  her.  "But  we  must  go.  He  said  he'd  be 
waiting  for  us.  Come." 

She  lowered  her  veil,  and  they  stepped  into 
the  hall.  In  the  darkness  they  reached  for  each 
other,  their  hands  touched  and  clasped;  and  so, 
hand  in  hand,  they  went  down  the  stairs  and 
forth  into  the  night — and  forth  into  the  begin- 
ning of  life. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REC 


A     000  128  968     5 


